


3.05 Save the Manatee!

by William_Easley



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Crime, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, Stan O' War II, Teen Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 11:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13410435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/William_Easley/pseuds/William_Easley
Summary: The Mystery Twins are fifteen and beginning their fourth summer in Gravity Falls when Mabel gets a call for help from her damp old flame, Mermando. Mildly suggestive moments of teen romancing and perhaps some disturbing scenes of violence and death. Complete at 18 chapters.





	1. It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> There's Wendip, OK? If you can't stand it, just skip this one. Story is complete.
> 
> I do not own Gravity Falls or its characters, the property of the Walt Disney Company and Alex Hirsch. I write only for fun and, I hope, to entertain other fans; I make no money from my fanfictions.

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**1: It Begins**

**(June 2015)**

That year's California state championship track and field meet took place in Clovis, near Fresno. Dipper did his best, but—

"Sorry I didn't win," he told Grunkle Stan and Wendy in the rental car after the meet.

"Hey, dude, second place is nothing to sneeze at!" Wendy told him.

"Like a kitten!" Mabel added. She had been riding high since Thursday, knowing that they'd be heading back to Gravity Falls from the San Jose International Airport on Saturday evening. She giggled and repeated, "Like a kitten!"

"Stop it," Dipper complained. He and Wendy rode in the back seat of the rental, a white Nexxus four-door sedan. Mabel was in shotgun position, and Grunkle Stan, of course, was driving.

"Hey, Dip  _was_ the team captain and assistant coach," Stan pointed out as he narrowly beat a yellow light. "And the Piedmont JV team _is_  the state championship team, so give him that!"

"Yeah," Mabel agreed, swiveling around as far as she could while keeping her seat belt on, "Good job, Captain Dipster! and to be fair, you had to come back from the bad ankle sprain that bastard Wildon gave you when he knocked you down back in February!"

"Pumpkin!" Stan bellowed. "You're in mixed company, so watch your damn language!"

"Damn straight!" Wendy shot back.

Dipper got into it: "Yeah, what the heck, Mabel?"

"He swears like a kitten, too!" Mabel chortled.

"We gonna make the flight, Stan dude?" Wendy asked. "I can drive if you want me to."

"You're still underage for rentals," Stan said. "I don't want the hassle of a ticket. Anywho, we're gonna make it in plenty of time. You kids just settle back and relax. Blindfolds are in the glove box if anybody wants one."

"Blindfolds?" Wendy asked.

"Tell you later," Dipper said.

Mabel seemed conciliatory: "Wendy, Dip probably won't tell you about this, being so modest and all, but he  _did_  win five first place sprints this season, including one two weeks ago. Not bad for a guy who missed like six weeks on account of an injury."

"I'm proud of my dork," Wendy said, reaching to hold his hand.  _Am I comin' in, dude?_

— _Loud and clear, Lumberjack Girl. God, I missed you so much!_

_Same here, Dip. You're lookin' hot to me, man! I'd kinda like to try a mental make-out session—we're in the back seat and all! But I guess the moaning would make Stan and Mabel suspicious._

— _Later, then!_  Dipper thought to her.

They had once gone through a sometimes terrifying adventure with an ancient water spirit, and they had not only escaped with their lives, but had also gained a weird kind of telepathy from it—whenever they touched skin to skin, they could converse and even, they had learned, exchange feelings. The previous summer, they had discovered those feelings could lead to—pretty pleasant outcomes, we'll say.

Stan was saying something: "Hey, tomorrow after you guys have rested up, I'll take you all out to see where Ford's and my houses are gonna be! Manly Dan and his crew have got 'em both framed in!"

"Awesome!" Mabel said. "When's the housewarming?"

"When they're finished!" Stan snapped. "Probably late fall. Remember, sweetie, it ain't just walls and ceilings and floors—there's plumbing, there's electrical wiring, there's painting and paneling, the whole nine yards."

"And furnishings, Stan," Wendy reminded him. "Gotta have furniture and appliances and decorations and stuff!"

"Oy! Sheila and Lorena will take care of that department! I can already see I gotta make another gambling expedition this summer to pay for all that. Or else find a quiet way to dispose of some valuables I collected when Poindexter and me went up to the Arctic."

"Valuables?" Wendy asked.

"Shh. Statue of limitations," Stan said. "Hey! Fishin' opener is Monday! Soos says we can take his boat. Who wants to go?"

"Wait," Dipper asked anxiously. "You're not bringing your joke book, are you?"

"That's a funny book! But, nah, you've heard 'em all."

"We'll go!" all three teens said in chorus. And then they laughed. "Jinx!" Mabel shouted. "That's three sodas I got comin', one from Wendy, one from Broseph, and one from Grunkle Stan, just for luck!"

"You'll get 'em one at a time, over three days," Stan said. "Definitely not all at once!"

"Mmm, Pitt Cola," Mabel murmured. "You can't get 'em in California for some reason."

"Health codes," Dipper suggested.

Mabel ignored him and piped up, "Hey, Grunkle Stan! When we get to Portland, can I drive to Gravity Falls?"

"Huh? Drive? Are you outa your mind?" Stan asked her. "You're just a kid!"

Dipper said, "No, we got our learner's permit back in March—"

"March second!" Mabel yelled. "We could've got 'em on February 28, but first of all, that was when Dip got hurt, and second, they wouldn't let us!"

"Because that was on a weekend!" Dipper said. "They're not even open on—"

Mabel blew a raspberry. "Yeah, excuses, excuses. That's the danged government for you! Lazy bunch of slackers!" She crossed her arms in a grumpy gesture.

Stan laughed. "That's my girl! Fight the powers that be!"

"Anyway," Dipper said, as much to Wendy as to Stan, "Mabel and I took the Driver's Ed course at school—five weeks in the classroom—and then we did six hours behind the wheel with a driving in—"

"Hah!" Mabel said. "That first instructor will never be the same!"

"Not after teaching _you_ ," Dipper said. "Anyhow, we finished the six hours of behind the wheel instruction, so now we have to log fifty hours of supervised driving time, ten of them at night, with an adult who'll certify that we did them."

"We got thirty-eight hours already!" Mabel said. "So I figure, Portland to Gravity Falls, an hour and a half each for me and Dipper, but you gotta sign the log sheets."

"Will out-of-state driving count?" Wendy asked. "Can you guys even legally drive in Oregon?"

"Yeah, yeah," Stan said. "Alex told me about the learners' permits on the phone, and I figured this might come up, so I checked. In Oregon, if you got an out-of-state learner's permit and you're fifteen, everything's copacetic. But  _you_  can't supervise 'em, Wendy! The supervisin' driver's gotta be at least twenty-one."

"Soos could do it!" Mabel said. "We'd get to drive a Jeep! Or a pick-up!"

"Sheesh! Not Soos! To supervise ya gotta be at least twenty-one  _and_  in your right mind!" Stan said.

"That's mean!" Mabel objected, but her train of thought hit a switch and was off on another track: "I can't wait to see little Harmony in person! She looks so adorable in photos! And Little Soos is talking! He always says 'Hi' to me when Soos face-times with me!"

"Girl, you won't recognize Widdles," Wendy said. "She's as big as Waddles now. Ready to have her own piglets."

Mabel sighed. "Yeah, but I don't want to know about it if she does. Soos and Melody can't handle any more pigs, I can't take 'em, and so they'll have to give them away to people who aren't looking for ham and bacon. How about your aunt, Wendy?"

"Yeah, she'd take one or two and agree not to make them into pork products," Wendy said, laughing. "Aunt Sally just farms for recreation, anyhow. She doesn't make her money from that."

Dipper didn't say anything about the prospect of more piglets. He knew that Waddles had been neutered—Widdles  _was_ his daughter, but pigs paid no attention to rules about swinecest.

Mabel got interested in the (monotonous) scenery and stopped talking for a time. Stan started making up one of his impromptu driving songs—"Cruisin' through Fairmead, so flat it makes my eyes bleed, here I am rollin' along, singin' a flat-road song… ." Dipper and Wendy held hands for the rest of the drive, making silent plans for the summer ahead—the Mystery Twins' fourth in Gravity Falls.

* * *

As the afternoon wore on, they drove through Madera and into the Central Valley, hit the long, straight, boring stretch of 152 West (Stan ignoring Mabel's plaintive, "With a learner's permit, a _sloth_  could drive this highway!"), and as the sun slipped lower in the sky, they took a more serpentine path into the arid Diablo mountain range, through the Pacheco Pass, and then down into the Santa Clara Valley, here sort of rural—though if you drove far enough north, you came to the urbanized "Silicon Valley," in the northernmost reach of which Alex Pines worked.

But they weren't going that far. From the town of Gilroy, Stan took 101 north, then 85 to San Jose. They returned the rental car a little more than two hours before their 8:30 PM flight, took the courtesy shuttle to the airport, and arrived with time to spare. Mabel insisted on dining at Sushi Boat, and Wendy agreed to join her, but Stan said, "Look, if I want to eat bait, I'll just wait for the fishing opener! C'mon, Dip, I saw a pizza joint down the terminal a ways."

They met up at the gate, sat to wait for their boarding time with their luggage stacked around them, except for the stuff that Mr. and Mrs. Pines had already packed up and shipped off to the Shack, and talked about Gravity Falls.

The Gnomes, in gratitude for Ford's having provided them with protection against their dreaded subterranean foes the Mole Men, had signed a contract to protect both Ford's and Stan's new homes from vermin for life. "Jeff learned to print just for the occasion. 'Course, the little devils love to eat rats and mice, anyhow," Stan said. "So it ain't like it's a great sacrifice on their part."

Wendy talked about Tambry and Robbie, who were getting married on the twelfth—"Was gonna be Saturday, but Tambry realized that date was the thirteenth, so they moved it back a day"—and Robbie and the Tombstones had just landed a recording contract with a company out of L.A.

"Fact, your sweetie's in on that, Mabes," Wendy said.

"Teek?"

"Yeah, Teek! See, he's back at his part-time job cookin' in the snack bar in the Shack. Couple of Saturdays ago, he got called to the table of this young dude and his girlfriend or wife or something because they loved the burgers so much they wanted to compliment him! Gave him, like, a fifty-dollar tip! And they got to talking, and the dude is a record producer with Electromix Studio—I think it is—and Teek gave him a USB memory stick with some of the Tombstones' music on it, and next week, the dude calls the Shack from California and Soos puts him in touch with Robbie, so the upshot is, him and Tambry and the other guys go down to L.A. to lay down a dozen tracks—and that's their honeymoon!"

"Whoa," Mabel said. "Good for Teek!"

"Yeah, Robbie's crazy grateful. It's not a whole lot of up-front money, but they get royalties and junk, and it's, like, an official label, not just indie sell-out-of-your-car music."

"Teek didn't tell me about that!" Mabel said.

"Oops. Well, let  _him_  tell you the whole story, and act surprised," Wendy suggested. "Teek needs to build up his confidence a little. Hey, he's old enough now to drive with you in his car!" She grinned at Mabel, as if saying  _You know what that means!_

Diffidently, Dipper said, "Um—I should be getting my author's copies of  _Bride of the Zombie_  before the end of the month. Hardcover. It's going to be officially published on June 30. And I've got a whole draft of the second book on my—oh, gosh, did I get my laptop back at Security?"

"Boop!" Mabel said, hefting the case.

Dipper whooshed out a sigh of relief. "I gotta get the manuscript for the lake-monster book in shape to send in to my editor by the first of August," he said. "Oh, I did get my check for the first book last month."

"Dip can write a book faster than the publisher can write a check!" Mabel announced. She bopped Dipper's arm. "Am I right?"

He smiled and shrugged. Most of the advance had gone into his college fund—but he had saved out a few hundred for spending money over the summer, and he hoped he could use it to give Wendy surprises and make her happy.

"By the way, you guys, we're all gonna stay the night in the McGucket mansion," Stanley told them.

"Me, too," Wendy added. "Dad and the boys are off bowling in Eugene, and they're gonna spend the night there, so Mayellen says I can have the same room Mr. and Mrs. Pines used when they came up at Christmas."

"Cool!" Dipper said.

"Well, it ain't gonna be a sleepover party," Stan said, sounding grumpy. "It's just 'cause it'll be past midnight when we get in, and we don't want to bother Soos and Melody—they got a new baby, and the old baby ain't always quiet at night if he gets over-stimulated. And you'd do it, Mabel, you know you would!"

Mabel blew a raspberry. "Over-stimulation never hurt  _me_!"

"Two words," Dipper said. "Smile Dip."

"Yeah, yeah," Mabel said. "Laugh it up, Dippity Dog! You're not gonna upset me one bit. This is gonna be the greatest summer yet! I have a good feeling about it!"

And the desk agent said through the PA, "We are ready to begin boarding for Alaskan Air Flight 1122 to Portland, Oregon, at Gate T-13."

"Let's do it!" Mabel said, and they got up to join the line for first class.


	2. Catching Up

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**2: Catching Up**

**(June 7, 2015)**

"Oy!" grunted Stan, carrying a snoozing Mabel through the side doorway of the McGucket mansion, where Dipper held the door open for him. "Does Mabel ever stay conscious past midnight?"

"She has two speeds," Dipper told his Grunkle. "Full and off."

Stan grunted. "Yeah, well, she's gettin' too big for this. C'mon, let's take the elevator. My knees are better than they useta be, but the stairs are still a pain!"

He led them down the hall—Chair Man Miaow, the robotized antique chair that Fiddleford had created and armed to the, well, chairs don't have  _teeth_ , do they? Armed to the brass tacks, let's say. Anyway, Chair Man Miaow met them, recognized Stan, and its twin .30-caliber machine guns swiveled into their compartments and the chair politely said, "Good morning, Mr. Pines." Somehow it could recognize Stan and Ford, even if they dressed alike. Stan was always "Mr." while Ford rated a respectful "Dr."

"Hiya, Annie," Stan said. Someone had told him it was a Queen Anne chair, and despite its name and masculine-sounding electronic voice, he had christened the chair that, and the chair didn't seem to mind.

They entered the nook where the small elevator was concealed, Wendy pressed the button for the second floor, and they rode up. "You know, Stan," she said as he lurched out of the elevator and lumbered down the hall, trying not to bump Mabel's head on the walls, "you probably cover more distance this way than if you took the stairs."

"It ain't the distance, Wendy, it's the inclination," he grumbled.

Wendy opened Mabel's traditional bedroom door—the previous fall, Wendy had slept there for a few nights herself, while Ford and Dipper investigated a strange kind of haunting that plagued the Corduroy house—and Stan tucked Mabel, fully dressed, into bed. She didn't really wake up, though she murmured, "Teek! You're so  _handsy_  tonight!"

"I'll ignore that," Stan said, straightening up. "Let's leave the luggage in the car until tomorrow, unless you guys can't make do without your dainties."

"I'm OK," Dipper said.

"Who you callin' 'dainty,' old man?" Wendy asked, but playfully.

Stan rubbed his back. "OK, in each bathroom you'll find a couple of new toothbrushes in the box and some toothpaste, soap, yada yada. Help yourselves. Jeeze, it's past one! Hope Sheila ain't stayed awake waitin' for me. I'm turnin' in, and nobody wake me and Sheila up until nine o'clock in the morning, got it?"

"Got it!" Wendy and Dipper said at the same instant.

"Sleep tight, knuckleheads," Stan said with a grin, and then he went down the hall and turned right, toward the suite he and his bride Sheila shared.

Dipper's room was next to Mabel's—a nice little bathroom lay between them—and he and Wendy exchanged a good-night kiss at his door. Then, alone and yawning, he pulled off his shoes and socks—and heard a light tap on his door. He opened it, and Wendy leaned against the doorjamb, a grin on her freckled face. "Hey, Dip, the Late Late show starts in five minutes. How about a movie night?"

"Uh—we'd have to go down to the TV room—"

"Nope," she said smugly. "I just found out that the big guest room Stan put me in has a thirty-six-inch flat screen. No need to go down at all. Unless you're just in the mood."

"OK, sure," Dipper said with a grin. He quietly closed the door, started down the hall, and suddenly stopped dead in his sock-footed tracks. "Wait, what?"

"Just teasin', dude," Wendy whispered, lightly punching his arm. "C'mon!"

The room on the right down at the end of the hall—at the back of the mansion—not only had a big TV, but also corner windows that (in the daytime) must have offered spectacular views, along with its own private bathroom, with a jetted tub big enough for two and—a huge king-sized bed. "Posh!" Dipper said.

"I know, right?" Wendy said. "I never went in while your folks were staying here."

"Me, either," Dipper told her. "Dad and Mom never invited me, and I didn't think to go and look." He tried out the bed. "Soft!"

"Yeah, like stayin' in a five-star resort hotel," Wendy agreed. She took off her trapper's hat—she and Dipper had exchanged headgear in the car on the way over from the airport—and tossed it onto a bedside table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she tugged off her boots.

She retrieved something from the far bedside table. "Here's the remote." She turned on the TV and discovered that, probably dating from the days when it was the Northwest Mansion, the house had an incredible satellite TV service with, it looked like, 2500 channels. She flicked through them, and both she and Dipper noticed that the adult channels were not blocked.

"Whattaya think?" she asked, pausing at a spot where two underclad folks were nuzzling each other.

"I—think we better find the schlocky movie channel. If we mean to keep our pact."

Wendy clicked out of the skin-flick zone. "One day, though, man."

"What, we'll watch X-rated TV?"

"Not," she said, waggling her eyebrows, "what I had in mind."

Dipper coughed and grabbed the remote. "I think I can find the local station," he said, wedging his tongue in the corner of his mouth. He clicked into the low 100's and sure enough found the local station at 102. "Whoa!" he said as the picture came on. "This is great resolution!"

"Like a regular movie theater!" Wendy agreed.

The 1:00 news bulletin was just going off, and the newscaster—not Shandra Jiminez, but a baggy-eyed older guy in a gray checked jacket, light-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, was saying, "…tions continue into whether or not the deaths were related. That's it for the late news wrap-up, and now stay tuned to the Late Late Horrible Movie, which is, uh . . .  _The Moon Men and Mavis._ I'm Cecil Parker, wishing you all a good night!"

A loud Bobby Renzobbi commercial then came on, the pony-tailed, bearded Bobby manically high-pressure hawking a gizmo no home should be without, the garbage pail laser deodorizer—"Don't let your house smell like a DUMP! Clip one onto your kitchen garbage pail, and each time YOU throw something stinky in, the Laserizer zaps it and sprays a dreamy scent—Mint Mocha, Upland Roses, Rotting-Fish-Free Sea Breeze, or your choice of dozens more! And yes! I know what you're gonna ask, and it DOES! It works on pigs, too! It WORRRKS ON PIIIIIGS!"

Wendy winced, clicking the mute button. "Why does everything they sell work on pigs?"

"'Cause if they say it does, Mabel buys it," Dipper told her. "They're desperate for every customer they can get!"

Wendy tossed the pillows to the foot of the bed and lay on her stomach, kicking her feet—still in orange and yellow socks—in the air. She patted the coverlet. "Lay down next to me, Dip."

He did, they smooched, and she took his hand.  _Dude, if this movie gets too scary, you gotta hold me!_

— _OK. And if it's stupid silly, you gotta hold me!_

_Deal!_

She turned the sound back on.

The movie . . . wasn't scary. Was it silly? Well, we'll say that some friendly holding and snuggling took place that night. And somehow Dipper didn't find his way back to his own room.

When the daylight woke them both up at six, the TV was just beginning the Farm Report (they had turned the sound way down again), and Dipper found himself delightfully tangled in Wendy's long red hair. They both had fun getting unsnarled.

They kissed in the doorway, and Wendy whispered, "I missed this so much."

"We'll do more of it," Dipper told her confidently. "We've got all summer!"

She kissed him again. "Thanks for not pushin' it. Our sacred vow holds, yo!" She punched the air and then said softly, "Better tiptoe down and mess up your bed a little, Dip. Don't want to give Mabel ideas."

"We don't have to," Dipper said with a grin. "She gets 'em all on her own!"

* * *

Dipper and Wendy agreed to start their running routine on Monday, skipping that Sunday morning, so after a relatively late breakfast—around 9:30—Stan drove them all out to the site just down the hill from the Mystery Shack. Dan had bulldozed and graded two driveways off to the right of Gopher Road, and though they were currently paved only with crushed gravel, they would be properly done in concrete before long, as Stan explained.

"Now, this," he said, stopping the Stanleymobile about fifty yards from the road—invisible, because Dan had curved both driveways for privacy's sake—"this is gonna be Ford's and Lorena's."

Dipper didn't quite know what to say. In a span of raw earth (lawns would come later), the house looked spacious—two thousand square feet of first-floor area, Stan said, plus what would become a fully-finished walk-out basement and a second floor upstairs—but currently it was skeletal, the framework and roof up, an interior stairway done, the first floor roughed in with floor joists and heavy plywood, but without the finished hardwood and tiled surfaces that Stan said would be coming. The plumbing had been stubbed in, and a temporary line provided rude electrical service for some hanging bulbs, but like the plumbing fixtures, the outlets had yet to be connected.

They walked uphill through a lush stand of young pines to the site of Stan's and Sheila's place, which was in similar shape, but larger. "We want a ranch-style house," Stan explained. "So ours is gonna be about 3000 square feet on the main level, with a full finished basement, too. Big enough so either of us can host family get-togethers with no crowdin'. Dan and his gang will be at work again tomorrow morning, an' you guys can see the houses as they get built and finished."

"Cool!" Mabel said. "Hey, I can see part of the Shack roof, just up the hill! I'm gonna run up and say hi to Waddles and Widdles! Meet you there!" And she dashed off through the swishing green boughs of the pine trees.

The others rode up in the Stanleymobile. Soos came hurrying out the moment he heard the car doors slam. He ran off the porch and stood grinning, taking Dipper's suitcase from him. "Dawgs! You're back! Uh—didn't Hambone come this summer, Dipper?"

"Oh, yeah, she's here," Dipper said, taking his guitar case from the trunk. "She's out back with her pigs."

"Oh, right. Well, your folks shipped your junk and all up, so the boxes with your name on 'em are up in the attic, and Mabel's are in her room. Do you think she'll be long? I got, like, a secret for her."

"I'll call her," Wendy said, taking out her phone.

They went in and had greeted Little Soos, now two and a toddler, and oohed and aahed over Harmony, who was an improbably cute baby to have Soos for a dad. She was cheerful and gurgly and bright-eyed, though only about a month old. Melody beamed, a picture of happy young motherhood, and Abuelita smiled at Dipper. "You be man soon!" she said. "Another fine Pines hombre!"

Then from the back door, Mabel came banging in, and Little Soos joyfully screamed, "Mabey!" and ran to be scooped up, swung around, cuddled, and kissed.

Then she said, "I've been petting pigs. Maybe I better wash my hands before holding the little one! Be right back!"

"So, you're closed today?" Dipper asked. He knew already—there was a notice down by the sign at the foot of the driveway.

"Yeah, 'cause of the homecoming!" Soos exclaimed. "High five!"

Dipper slapped his palm. Mabel returned, picked up Harmony, and soon had her giggling. Like Time Baby, Harmony really seemed to love tummy raspberries!

Wendy reminded Soos: "You had some kind of surprise for Mabes?"

"Oh, right!" Soos exclaimed. He turned to talk to Mabel: "See, Mr. Poolcheck gave 'em to Teek, and Teek—he started workin' weekends again when we opened in April—he brought 'em to me, and I put 'em somewhere real safe. By the way, Teek will be over soon as him and his folks get back from Mass. Now, those things he brought over—um, where did I put 'em?"

Dipper grinned. "In the attic closet," he suggested. That was, Soos erroneously believed, a fortress-like hideaway that nobody could break into. Unless they had a hairpin or a straightened-out paperclip or some other high-tech gizmo.

"Right!" Soos said. "I'll go get 'em!"

"Never mind," Dipper said. "Come on, Mabel. Let's see what the surprise is. Want to come, Wendy?"

"Sure," the redhead said.

They all three thundered up the stair, and Dipper faintly heard Abuelita from below: "Now that sounds like home again!"

Dipper opened the locks with the President's Key—one of the few uses he had found for it, because it was aces at any lock manufactured before about 1860, but hit-or-miss on all the later ones. It worked fine on the antique padlocks, though, and Mabel hauled out a clinking peach basket full of—bottles?

"Mermando!" she exclaimed. "I didn't hear from him at all last summer!"

"Take them into our old room," Dipper said. "Read them there."

"Yay! It'll be like our first summer!" Mabel yelled, and she ran into the bedroom.

"After you, my lady," Dipper said, removing his pine-tree cap and bowing to Wendy.

"Thank you, kind gentleman," Wendy returned with a grin. She reached out, not down, to ruffle his hair. "You know, you're gonna catch up to me yet."

"I grew a little this last year," Dipper told her. "But I think the rate is slowing down."

Wendy gazed almost directly into his eyes. "We're close enough for Army work now."

Dipper blinked. "Huh?"

She nudged him. "I mean we're both tall enough to drive a tank!"

On the bed she used to occupy, Mabel had already shaken seven rolled-up notes from the bottles. "Gotta get 'em in order," she said. "He dated them at the top. But it's in Spanish! Curse my decision to take French in high school! What's 'Marzo?'"

"That would be March," Dipper told her, sitting on the foot of her bed. Wendy pulled up the chair nearby.

And Abril was April, Mayo was May, and Junio was June. There were seven messages in all: One from April, five from May, and one as recently as June first.

Mabel grabbed the April 19th one and unrolled it. "'My dearest Mabel,'" she read out loud, "'You have probably forgotten all about me.' Hah! Forget my first kiss? I don't think so! He tasted like anchovies!"

"Ew," Wendy said, making a face.

"He really did," Dipper assured her. "Please don't ask how I know."

"I got photographic proof that Dipper knows what he's talking about!" Mabel said. "Let me see, the April one is first . . . terrible news? Oh, no! Kidnapped? Oh, my gosh!"

She read through all the rest and then she looked up, shock on her face. "Guys! I've got to write an answer and take it to the civic pool right away! And then we have to form up the Mystery Team!"

"What's happening?" Dipper asked.

"Mermando's wife! Sirenia, Queen of the Manatees! She's been kidnapped! And Mermando says the kidnappers are heading our way!"

Mabel broke out waterproof paper and a permanent marker and began her letter to her first boyfriend. Well, merboyfriend, but to Mabel it amounted to the same thing.

"I'll tell him we're mobilizing!" Mabel said. "And explain that I don't live at the Shack year-round! He must have thought I was ignoring him!"

As she scribbled hastily, Wendy gave Dipper a big grin and reached to hold his hand. "I missed this, too!" she said. "Here we go again!"


	3. Trail of Death

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(June 7, 2015)**

**3: Trail of Death**

_And at about the same time that Mabel was writing her letter . . . ._

Stanford Pines had kept his old lab beneath the Mystery Shack, partly out of sentiment—it had been his first privately-owned, self-funded laboratory—but mostly from inertia, laziness, and a tendency to become distracted. Though he thought that Dipper had more similarities to him than Mabel, he did share Mabel's butterfly trait of flying a zigzag mental course, one problem leading to something that took him off track to speculate about something interesting.

Still, when he wanted to focus his mind, he had learned to do that with the intensity of a large magnifying glass bringing the sun down to earth to light a campfire. And though he did not think of it as a lab, or as his own, Fiddleford McGucket, in moving the married Stanford and Stanley into the generous guest suites, had also told Ford to take over the former guest parlor, a nicely-appointed, paneled room, as his own if he wished.

He had so wished, and that morning he stood in front of a giant-sized corkboard, five feet tall and ten wide, that he had arranged to block the parlor's one window. This time he didn't want to be distracted, and too often looking out of a window in Gravity Falls could give you a glimpse of a soaring Pteranodon, a whizzing flying saucer, or—conceivably—a sinuous dragon flying upstream to spawn.

Ford stood studying the oversized map of the western USA. And the pushpins and the yarn connecting them to each other and to the notes off to the left side. These tended to be on the cryptic side:

* * *

San Diego, Jan 30—David Fortescue Mattson, 35. Throat slashed. Found floating in bay 4:00 AM (apprx). ID'd Feb 4 (FBI fingerprints). Reported missing Jan 29, did not return from road trip to Mex. Automobile still missing. Last seen crossing border from Mex. Had a passenger, ID'd as G.A. Friel, address Chicago. No leads.

* * *

Los Angeles, Feb 11—Aliete Manolo, 28. Stabbed, throat slashed. Found dead in National Forest, est. time of death Feb 3-4. Body damaged by scavengers. Last seen alive night of Feb 3. Worked as waitress in all-night diner, left job at midnight. One witness thought she had a man as passenger. Car found abandoned off Hwy 166 in Los Padres Natl. Forest, Feb 12.

* * *

May 3-6—Susan Flowers Blurchard, neé Susan Flores, dies in Sisters of Charity home, Palo Alto, CA, of lymphatic cancer, body claimed by priest. May 6, Washoe County NV, off Hwy 34, W. of Black Rock Desert: NV dep sheriff Tomas Machado investigates smoke column, finds burned-out hut or mobile home, 2 badly charred bodies inside, one male, one female. Female ID'd as Susan Flowers Blurchard. Male still unknown. Both bodies show signs of human-inflicted wounds. Some tire tracks in sand ¼ mile from house, not ID'd. Q: What the hell?

* * *

 **From the Journals of Stanford Pines:** _Sunday, June 7. For some time now, I have been wondering whether the troubles are truly over, the ones that began (as far as I know)_ _with the cursed CD cover that brought the_ _T'klatlumodh to Gravity Falls, allowing the creature to prey on Wendy Corduroy._

 _I have the sick feeling that they are not, that the human monster behind the sending is somehow searching for Wendy, to what end I do not know. I have been tracking a series of brutal murders. Since January 1 I have collected accounts of nearly two dozen. Most of them obviously do not concern the case—they are murders of passion, or in one case evidently a Mob execution. But at least five, and possibly six, may have some connection to the_ _T'klatlumodh and its unknown master._

_The general pattern of these murders (or in the case of Susan Flowers, of the taking and mutilation of her dead body—why? Some magic ritual? NOTE TO SELF: Must research. Call Helving in London tomorrow morning.)_

_Where was I? The general geographical pattern seems to come up from San Diego to Los Angeles to the Bay Area and then east to Nevada. However, my latest information seems to indicate that the perpetrator—if indeed one person is behind these horrors—is coming northward, toward Oregon or Washington State and may even be near already._

_I am torn about whether to warn the family. Stanley, of course, must be told. But Mason and Mabel? Wendy? In a way she certainly has a right to know if she is in fact still in danger. However, I don't want to involve the young people before I am sure._

_I must be sure._

* * *

Closing the Journal, Ford stood up and studied the map. He pushed one more pin in, this one in Las Vegas, where a woman's body had been found, throat cut, in a hotel room rented by a Mr. Friel. Of interest to Ford was the fact that the police team had found a sheet of hotel stationery that had slipped behind the wardrobe. Someone had drawn on it, with pencil and a red ballpoint, an odd sketched figure.

He scribbled a notation on a large yellow sticky note: May 23. Hotel maid discovered body of Gloria "Bee" Beedlebin, 24, in suite rented by "George Friel." She had been murdered, body nearly drained of blood. Friel's passport and driver's license found in a metal basin, burned almost beyond recovery. FBI reports they were undoubtedly forged. Contd.

On the second sheet of the note: L.V. police located a Mr. Franklyn, who said he had played poker with a man named "George Black," seems to be Friel under another alias. "Black" won a substantial amount of money, in cash. No trace of Friel/Black has been found. However, on May 22, body of Luís Cardova, truck driver, found in his rig, driven into desert and abandoned. Throat cut. Suspect same killer.

Higher on the map, Ford stuck another note: _June 1: Sheriff Blubs obtained for me a copy of the drawing found in "Friel's" hotel room._

He turned to his desk and picked up that drawing. It was . . . a circle, divided into ten pie-wedges. A Futhark rune had been drawn—in red—inside each of the ten. Seven of them had been circled.

And, again in red, someone had written below the Zodiac a chilling note:

_**7 in Oregon.** _


	4. News from the Undernet

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(June 7, 2015)**

**4: News from the Undernet**

"You saved all these?" Dipper asked when Mabel opened a trunk in the attic, reached in, and with semi-musical clinks pulled out a corked glass bottle.

"Of course!" Mabel said. "These held all the letters that Mermando sent me up until we lost touch last year. Ugh, this is stuck." With an effort, she pulled the cork out with a  _pop!_  "Here, hold this."

Dipper took the bottle. Though it was definitely glass, it felt strangely light in his grip, as if it were made of plastic. Mabel rolled up the note she had written to Mermando and pushed the cylinder of paper inside the bottle. Then she took the bottle back and corked it again, pounding with the heel of her hand until the seal was tight. She bounced up from the floor, where she had been kneeling. "Come on! Wendy can drive us!"

"Where to, dude?" Wendy asked as they clattered down the stairs, Mabel far in the lead.

Mabel opened the door and gestured dramatically. "To the public pool!"

"Um—'s not open yet," Wendy said. "Not until June fifteenth."

Laughing with reckless abandon, Mabel shot back: "Who cares!"

Wendy shrugged, they crunched across the parking lot and climbed into her car, and she drove them into town and from there to Mr. Poolcheck's domain, the Gravity Falls public swimming pool.

Sure enough, the chain-link fence—repaired and strengthened and made two feet taller after the summer of 2012 had seriously weakened its integrity in numerous places—was secured by a modern padlock that would certainly defeat the President's Key and perhaps even a hairpin in Mabel's hands.

"We better not get caught breaking in," Dipper said.

"C'mon," Wendy told him, with a chuckle. "Where's my daring dork of yore?"

Dipper forced a grin. "It's just that—well, I'm  _scared_ of Mr. Poolcheck. He always looks like he's about to have a fit or a stroke or something."

"I happen to know," Wendy said, "that when the pool's not open, he drives over to check twice a day, once in the early morning and once around sundown. Unless he just comes by for no reason and spots my car in the lot, he won't catch us."

"But if he did, we'd be trespassing—"

"Oh, we're not _trespassing_!" Mabel said. "In fact, we don't even have to go inside the fence. Well, not yet, anyway. And if somebody did have to go in, I'd do it on my own."

"Wait," Dipper said. "You had Wendy drive us here for no reason?"

Mabel looked offended. "No, for a good reason!"

"I'm confused."

"Doesn't matter! Follow me!" Mabel said, leading them into the park-like stretch of ground behind the pool enclosure, where once Soos had desperately fled a pursuing Mr. Poolcheck. She shoved through a screen of young pines and pointed. "There it is!"

 _It_  turned out to be a square concrete base, maybe four feet on a side and less than a foot tall, with a steel manhole cover embedded in it. "Shoot," Mabel said. "I should've brought the crowbar! It's been so long that I forgot."

"Um—tire iron do?" Wendy asked.

Mabel nodded. "Maybe."

"Just a sec." Wendy brushed through the trees, heading back to the parking lot.

Dipper asked, "What are we doing, exactly?"

"Using the undernet!" Mabel snapped. "Doy!"

"All right," Dipper said, striving for a calm tone. "And—what exactly is that?"

"Dipper!" Mabel said. "How do you think Mermando was able to write to me, and I was able to write back? The _undernet_ , Brobro! It's operated by—" her pupils got enormous—"merpeople magic!"

"Undernet," Dipper said. "So that's a thing, is it?"

"Shh!"

Dipper heard someone approaching, but it was Wendy, not an apoplectic public-pool guardian. "Here ya go," she said, crunching back over fallen twigs. "Let me guess, we have to open this manhole."

"The proper term," Mabel said, "is 'maintenance access shaft.' Less sexist."

"Not 'person hole?'" Dipper asked, a little sarcastically.

"Well, in New York City they're supposed to call them 'maintenance holes,'" Mabel said, sounding thoughtful and almost reasonable. "Other cities call them 'worker access cover' or—"

"That is very nearly interesting," Wendy said cheerfully. She found a rock to use as a fulcrum, then wedged the pry-end of the tire iron into the notch of the metal cover. "Here we go." She used the tire iron to lever the heavy cover open a few inches. Dipper gripped it, strained to hold the weight, and then with his arms and her foot, they flipped it upside-down, with an almighty clatter. "Boosh!" Wendy announced.

"How'd you do this by yourself?" Dipper asked Mabel.

"First time was hard, but after that usually the Gnomes would help," Mabel said. "Or a Manotaur, if I had jerky to offer him as payment. Gaze into an underground chamber of wonders!"

They all three gazed down into the concrete shaft. About ten feet below the surface, a swirl of water, like a permanent whirlpool, rotated—and glowed golden with its own internal light. "I never knew this was here!" Dipper said.

Mabel sounded smug: "Yeah, I don't tell you everything. Get ready to see some real magic." She held out the bottle, grasping it by the neck, and said loudly, "For Mermando of the Gulf merfolk! From Mabel of Gravity Falls!" She let go, the bottle plummeted, and the instant it hit the surface of the water, without a sound or sign of a splash, it vanished in a bright flare of light.

"It'll arrive instantaneously in the Gulf of Mexico," Mabel said. "Now. We ought to get a quick response on this. Let's put the cover back in place."

It took all three of them working together. The weighty steel cover grated over the concrete, and Wendy had to use the tire iron to make it settle into its collar. "How'll we know if he answers?" she asked Mabel. "And do I have to pry this dang cover off again?"

"No, you don't. And we'll know _when_  he answers because the reply bottle will pop out into the pool."

"Uh—so we have to break into the pool enclosure anyway?" Dipper asked.

"All part of the plan," Mabel assured him. "But we won't break anything, so stop fretting about Mr. Poolcheck, Broseph!"

"Wait, wait," Wendy said. "Let me understand something. You mean the water from this magical, what, spring?"

"Yeah, natural spring," Mabel said. "Or, better yet— _unnatural_  spring! Mwop!"

"So, you're saying the weird water from this thing is what fills the pool?" Wendy finished.

Mabel shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"Oh, man!" Wendy said. "If I'd known that, I'd never have taken that lifeguard job!"

"Oh, the water doesn't affect humans," Mabel said. "Just special merfolk glass. The fun thing is the bottles are hand-blown—over the lava from an undersea volcano. Come on!"

They agreed to boost Mabel over the chain-link fence. Luckily, the town council had decided that Mr. Poolcheck's suggestion of six-strand razor wire at the top would be too expensive to implement. Mabel dropped down, went over to the pool edge, and said, "They've got the pool cover on still. I'll have to unlace it."

She untied the lacing that held the floating polypropylene-plastic mesh cover in place, then peeled back a section beside the inlet. She leaned down. "It's warm," she said. "Of course, in the heat of summer, it feels comfortable, but it's a little warm when the weather's still cool."

"Must be why it never freezes over," Wendy said.

Mabel took off her shoes and socks and sat on the edge of the pool, pushing the cover below the inlet with her bare feet. "Mm. Feels good. Yeah, the warm water coming in keeps the pool temp around eighty degrees, give or take. Now all we have to do is wait. This may take a little while, though. You guys can make out or whatever. I'll yell when the bottle pops out."

"Mabel!" Dipper yelped.

"Good idea, Mabes," Wendy said, reaching down to squeeze his hand. "I'll run and put this back in the car. Then we can sit under the trees there." She took the tire iron back, and then she led Dipper to a tall evergreen. "This'll be private," she told him, bending and pushing the limbs aside. The boughs sheltered a clear space, and creeping into it was a lot like crawling inside a tent. "Know what this is?" Wendy asked, sitting with her back against the trunk.

"Blue spruce," Dipper answered promptly. He grinned. "Got that from you—I can identify every tree you knew when you shot me that information last year."

She laughed. "Yeah, like I can do math problems that two years back would have left me goin' 'Huh? What?' 'cause I got the skill from you in a mental-transfer dealy," Wendy said comfortably. "These trees aren't common around here. I guess somebody must've planted this one fifty, sixty years ago. Most important thing you need to know about them, though, is that trees like this one make real good emergency shelters if you get caught in a snowstorm. Dad saved his life once when he was about my age by holin' up under a big old spruce. Had enough fallen deadwood for a little fire, and he lasted out a three-day early blizzard, living on water from melted snow, until he could bust out and slog ten miles to safety. One day I'll show you how to improvise snow shoes!"

"I'll remember that," Dipper promised.

Wendy grinned. "Well, Dip, looks like it's gonna take a little time, and I'd hate to offend Mabel by not takin' her suggestion, so—wanna kiss and junk?"

He replied silently, but in a way that told her 'yes.'"

* * *

"Got it!" Mabel yelled.

"Darn it," Wendy said, faking a pout and buttoning up her flannel shirt. "Just when it was starting to get interesting!"

"To be continued," Dipper promised. They crept out. Mabel waited at the gate.

"Somebody take this," she said, stretching up to hold the bottle over her head.

"Got it," Wendy said, standing on her toes and grabbing the bottle neck. "OK, let's get you out."

"Way ahead of you," Mabel said. With the sleek grace of a squirrel, she effortlessly scaled the inside of the gate, swung a leg over, and dropped down to the pavement.

"You mean I didn't have to boost you up?" Wendy asked.

With a grin, Mabel said, "I just wanted you to feel involved! I'm gonna read this."

She did silently, and then she said, "OK, it's nothing personal, so let me read it out loud."

Without trying to imitate Mermando's Spanish-inflected English, she read:

* * *

_My dearest Mabel—after so many notes without an answer, I was so afraid you had forgotten me! Thank you for explaining why you are not always in Gravity Falls._

_Here is the bad news: Weeks ago, a fishing boat caught my wife Sirenia in a net. Manatees are a protected species, but these fishermen are evil. They sold my wife to the owner of a private aquarium near a town called Brookings in the state of Washington. That is near you, is it not? My knowledge of geography only extends to beaches._

_My friends the loyal dolphins tracked the ship that took her through the canal of Panama and up the west coast of the continent. I think by this time she may be imprisoned. The dolphins heard the sailors speak of delivering her to a man named (I hope I spell it correctly) Folloll. Or maybe it might be Fellell or Fossoss. I do not know at all, really. The dolphins have trouble with certain sounds of human language._

_Please let me know by return note if you can help. As my people formed a magic circle to transport me from the Pacific to the Gulf of Mexico, so can we do for her, if only she can reach the mighty sea!_

_With kindest regards and much gratitude,_

_Mermando, King of the Manatees_

* * *

" _Kindest regards_?" Dipper asked. "Isn't that a little weak for the guy who got his first kiss from you?"

"Correction," Mabel said. "I got my first kiss from him!"

"Whatever," Wendy said. "So—are we in on this?"

"Mabel?" Dipper asked.

She gave him a popeyed look of surprise. "Are you kidding? Of  _course_ , we're in!"

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "Even though this Sirenia is, like, your rival for the dude's affections?"

"My love," Mabel said solemnly, "is as capacious as the mighty ocean! It is as forgiving as the calm waters of the Pacific! It—"

"Sheesh, Mabel!" Dipper said. "You gotta stop watching those Jacques Cousteau reruns!"

"Should've brought my waterproof paper," Mabel said. "I got my pen."

"Use the back of his note, girl," Wendy said.

"Brilliant!" Mabel said.

Her response to Mermando was brief:

* * *

_Dear Mermando:_

_Help is coming! I will let you know as soon as we have a line on the perp!_

_Love,_

_Mabel_

* * *

"Yeah, I'm sure that'll be clear as mud to him," Dipper said.

But they levered the manhole—personhole—uh, maintenance access shaft cover open again and dispatched the note.

"What now?" Mabel asked.

"Now," Dipper said, "I go online and see what we can learn about a guy who might have a private aquarium up in southwestern Washington state."

"Your turn to shine, man," Wendy said.

They piled into her car and sped back to the Shack.


	5. Fishing Opener

**Save the Manatee!**

* * *

**(June 8, 2015)**

**5: Fishing Opener**

Soos wanted to include Little Soos and Harmony, but Melody gently persuaded him that it would be better not to take babies out on a small boat for six hours on a sunny day. In the end, he settled for Dipper, Mabel, Ford, and Stan as his passengers. Wendy apologized—"I don't have the patience for that kind of fishing, and anyway Dad will bring home about thirty pounds of smelly fish that I'll have to clean, fillet, and freeze for later."

She stayed home to finish putting her room back the way it was supposed to be after her brother had nearly managed to convert it into a hazardous-waste site.

Ford had the patience for fishing, but almost none of the skills. "Come on," Mabel teased. "You must've done some fishing when you were lost in all those dippy dimensions!"

"Hey!" Dipper protested.

"It isn't a reference to your  _name_ ," Mabel pointed out. She whispered to Grunkle Ford, "Sometimes I miss Dippy Fresh."

"I . . . have no response to that," Ford said.

They arrived at the lake at about eight in the morning, but the water already teemed with boats. Half the town seemed to be out stalking the wily steelhead (exciting to hook, but they tasted bleh), kokanee (some nine-pounders had been taken from Lake Gravity Falls), and even sturgeon. Dipper hoped that if anybody hooked one of the latter, Mabel wouldn't pretend to be holding a microphone and belt out "Like a Sturgeon," but he wouldn't put money on that. They saw Manly Dan and his two younger boys, Tad Strange (who fished without hooks because he enjoyed the activity but didn't like fish), Toby Determined, Lazy Susan, and even Mr. Poolcheck (Dipper turned up the collar of his vest, though Mabel yelled, "Hiya, Mr. Poolcheck! Good luck fishing!" before adding under her breath, "You weird pool guy!"

They had parked close to the ranger station and were ferrying fishing gear from the trunk of the Stanleymobile over to the dock and to Soos's boat, the  _Cool Dad_ , tied up at the wharf. Just as they reached the boat, Mabel yelled, "Oh, my gosh! Look!  _Teek!_  I didn't know you went in for fishing!"

Teek, grinning up from a rowboat tied next to Soos's craft, said, "Hi, Mabel! Well—everybody else was going out on the lake, and I thought you might be here, so—want to join me? I rented the boat and rods, and they're not due back until four!"

" _Yeah,_  I wanna join you!" Mabel said. "Grunkle Stan, could I . . .?"

"Knock yourself out, Pumpkin," Stan said, grinning. "That'll leave us four guys to make it a man's day out. We can loaf, we can fish, I can tell jokes, and when one of us farts, there's nobody to complain!"

"Speak for yourself," Dipper said in a grumpy voice. He had keen enough hearing to have caught the earlier reference to Dippy Fresh, and any mention of that ersatz version of himself always put him in a foul mood.

"Where'd you get that?" Mabel asked as she climbed down the ladder and plumped into Teek's rented boat.

Teek leaned back, and for the first time Dipper clearly saw what he was wearing—black, and long-sleeved, so he'd undoubtedly have to take it off when the sun got hot. "Is that  _Robbie's_?" Dipper called down.

Showing off the broken-heart emblem on the front of the hoodie he wore, Teek said, "Yeah, used to be! He said it was his lucky hoodie, the first one he wore back in seventh grade! He gave it to me because I helped him get a recording contract!"

"Suits you!" Mabel said. "Ooh, you're not wearing your glasses!"

"Contacts," he said. "Finally got used to them! Uh, do I, you know, look OK?"

"Mabel likes! Dipper, doesn't he look kinda edgy and mysterious now?"

"Looks like Teek in a hoodie!" Dipper called back, but his tone was friendly, and Teek grinned and shrugged.

"You guys have fun!" Stan shouted as he finished stowing the fishing gear.

Then Teek rowed Mabel away, in the direction of Scuttlebutt Island, beyond which lay open water (if you didn't count Monster Head Island, which everyone avoided on foggy days, and a few scattered rocks, barely big enough to be considered islets).

Dipper leaned on the rail and saw that both Teek and Mabel had donned life jackets. He yelled after them, "Don't forget the sunscreen!"

"We got it, Brobro!" Mabel yelled back, her voice already faint with distance. She said something to Teek that Dipper couldn't hear, and then she giggled.

Immediately, Dipper regretted his suggestion. Because if he and Wendy had been out alone in a boat, and they needed sunscreen, it would be very natural for Wendy to offer to apply Dipper's and for Dipper to—

Dangerous, slippery, mental territory! He forced himself to refocus.

While Stan was telling Soos a convoluted joke ("So an armadillo, a rabbi, and the Marine Corps band walk into this bar—"), Dipper helped Ford cast off the mooring lines. Then Soos started the engine, and they putt-putted away from the dock—it was a no-wake zone—until they got into deeper water, when Soos put on a little speed.

Ford stood in the bow of the boat, and Dipper came to join him. "You know, Mason," he said, "it's a remarkable fact, but most other dimensions don't have fish  _per se_. Aquatic creatures, yes, millions of them, but very few have the sleek design for swimming that Earth fish do, and fewer still are edible. Though there was one dimension where the life forms were based on evolved fungi, and there was a small boneless fish-like creature that tasted like Shitake mushrooms."

"Grunkle Ford," Dipper said, "what do you know of merpeople?"

"Merpeople?" Ford replied, snapping out of his reverie. He punched his glasses back into place on his nose. "Well, legends of them go way back to ancient times. The classic picture of a merperson would be the Greek concept of Triton or Ione—she was a Nereid with a fish tail. Of course, even more ancient was the Babylonian Oannes—"

Dipper cut the lecture short: "Mabel met a merman in Gravity Falls back in the summer of 2012."

"—who came from—I beg your pardon? A merman, here? In the lake, you mean? Fresh water? How could that be?"

"Well, it's like this." Dipper told Ford the story of Mermando, who had been netted in the Gulf and who had been transported, along with a load of live bait, to Gravity Falls, and who, through a complicated series of accidents, had wound up trapped in the municipal swimming pool until Mabel developed a predicable crush on him. In the end, and incidentally causing a lot of trouble for Dipper, she had freed him to return to the sea.

Ford listened intently. "Remarkable story," he said when Dipper finished. "Coming from anyone else, it would sound crazy. I wonder how this creature adapted to fresh water? Or was it mammalian? Did it have lungs?"

"Mermando," Dipper said, "had gills." He didn't mention a word about reverse CPR or his first kiss, which definitely did not count!

"Hm. Well, there are precedents. Some sharks can adapt to fresh water, like the Glyphis sharks. Bull sharks, normally maritime, have even been sighted as far up the Mississippi as Illinois, so it's possible. But merfolk are real, are they? I never met any—well, not on Earth, anyhow. There was Dimension 10/W-39, in which I found myself on a mostly maritime world, only one large island with weird pre-sentient life forms, and the dominant intelligent species there were sea-dwelling merfolk, but they weren't particularly friendly."

"Earth merpeople are real," Dipper said. "But I don't think there's many of them. Now, this is odd. Mabel helped Mermando escape, and evidently once he got into salt water again he had some mystical way of calling his family. I don't know, maybe it isn't mystical. I've read that sound travels far underwater, and maybe the whales or dolphins or something just relayed the message around to the Atlantic to get word to his family. Anyhow, this part really is magical, I guess: the merpeople have some way of teleporting from one side of the world to the other, but it takes, like, a hundred of them to pull it off."

"Pooling psychic resources," Ford said. "I see."

"OK, so now Mermando needs our help." Dipper had to explain how Mermando had been forced into an arranged marriage with Sirenia, the Queen of the Manatees—

"Fascinating creatures," Ford put in. "They have no natural enemies and are the most docile of sea mammals. Do you know, they live in the ocean, but they must find a source of fresh water to drink—oh, sorry, you weren't finished."

Dipper took a deep breath. "Well, now  _she's_  been captured, and Mermando's sent Mabel an SOS because she's apparently being transported illegally to Washington State . . .. "

As soon as the  _Cool Dad_  reached deep water, Soos killed the engine and dropped anchor, and he and Stan sat in the stern with lines in the water, contentedly fishing, while Stan told the one about the RV, the impatient wife, and the naked man. Dipper and Ford sat not quite out of earshot in the bow, holding rods, but they didn't even put the hooks into the water. They kept their own conversation quiet.

The methodology of bottle teleportation intrigued Ford, and Dipper said, "If we can rescue Mermando's wife, then I'm sure Mabel will give you one of the bottles to analyze." He reached into his vest and pulled out a folded computer printout. "Here's what I found out yesterday."

He had learned, briefly, that the mysterious owner of a massive private aquarium—not just a tropical fish tank, but an installation big enough to handle creatures the size of manatees—was most likely one of a small number of wealthy individuals. The paper, which he handed to Ford, listed four possibilities:

* * *

_Joseph Modine Bascombe, 50 or so. Lived in FL Keys. Made fortune running weapons (rumored) in S. and Cent. America. Repeatedly fined for violating environmental laws. Known to have captured and sold endangered or rare sea animals to shady aquariums in Mexico, Belize, Brazil, a couple of other countries. Relocated to Washington when Florida became too hot for him (reportedly people he shorted in an illicit deal came looking for him). Rich, but does he have real interest in sea life? NOTE: Sources are tabloids, not reliable._

_Cholmondeley St. Riffincolombeck and wife, Honoria, 50-ish couple, British. (NOTE: Source says his name is pronounced "Chumley Sinfrinby"). He built the British film studio Cosmonimbus, she was movie star. He sold out in 2013 for a reported $1.25 billion. He is avid yachtsman, she is supposed to be fascinated by whales and dolphins, etc. They retired to huge private estate on Vancouver Island—Canada, but just across from Bellingham, WA._

_Martina Marinopolous, about 45-50? American, married seven times. Most recent was Greek electronics magnate, now deceased. Devoted to scuba diving. Fourth husband owned big hotel in Barbados, she had her own private cove and reef. Collected exotic fish. Lived in Silicon Valley for five years until husband died. Now lives in/near Seattle? Not much known about her—has private security squad._

_Thomaso A. Voillelli, 50(?). Retired businessman orig. from Boston. Multi-millionaire. Owns private island in Puget Sound. Used to be an enthusiastic sports fisherman. Held record for biggest marlin for 3 yrs. Widower, recluse. Rumored to have organized crime ties, never arrested. People now calling his home "Hermit Island."_

* * *

Ford looked up from the sheet of paper and murmured, "How did you find all this out so quickly?"

"Internet," Dipper said.

In the three years since his return, Ford had acquired some familiarity with the web, but he still had difficulty researching with its aid—mainly because when he began to look up material about something he was interested in, he inevitably discovered some tidbit of information completely unrelated to the topic, but interesting, and before he realized it, twelve hours had gone past and he had learned tons of things about bauxite production, the properties of seagull guano as a fertilizer, the process of nitrogen fixation, the reasons why beans produced flatulence, the importance of fiber in diet, the production of hemp ropes in the 1700s, how Royal Navy sailing ships had been protected against teredo worms, and the last words of Admiral Nelson. However, by then the original subject of aluminum alloys had been forgotten, along with the puzzling question of why the British spelled it "aluminium" when Sir Humphry Davy, the British scientist who had named the element in 1807, had originally called it "aluminum."

By the way, Ford further discovered that Sir Humphry Davy abominated gravy and lived in the odium of having discovered sodium, but those points were debatable and need not detain us.

"I'll have to get you to show me how you do that some time," Ford said. "I find the internet a bit of a mess, frankly. Well, I don't know anything about any of these people, but I can make a call to a friend of mine who is in the law-enforcement line—"

"The Professor," Dipper said.

"Oh, yes, that's right, you met him back when Miss Northwest was endangered," Ford said. "Yes, that's the man I mean, and if there's any information he can give me on these people, I'm sure he will." He took out his phone but then said, "I don't seem to have any bars."

"Yeah, the lake doesn't have good coverage," Dipper told him. "But if you don't mind, could you do this just as soon as you get back?"

"Even better," Ford said. "You come back to the McGucket house with me, and we'll use the Professor's secure electronic-mail line to send him all these details. Knowing him and his resources, he should have something for us by tomorrow."

"I guess we've got time," Dipper said.

* * *

_Gravity Falls._

He had never heard of the place, but all the lines seemed to be converging on the western side of the Cascade Range, in a small territory called Roadkill County, in which Gravity Falls was the only settlement of any size.

Curious.

With the money he had realized from his gambling excursion in Las Vegas, the researcher had found sources for new identification materials. He had shed the ones that claimed he was Mr. Black and Mr. Friel, had destroyed them and left the ashes behind. Now he had an array of six identities to choose from.

They had been more expensive than the papers he had picked up in South America—well, they had cost more than the old man "Restropo's" asking price, had he lived to collect it—but they should be good ones. The people he had bought them from had expertise in creating new identities for criminals, fugitives, and foreigners of dubious intent.

In fact, they had even added something: Each one of the false identities now had something of a web presence, a false electronic trail that suggested they had been in the States, inoffensively, for a long time.

He chose one for a long bus ride to Boise, Idaho—a very roundabout route, but he did not care to pass too close to Reno on his way. Certain . . . evidence had been discovered. Someone might—despite his precautions—have seen him and remembered him.

Boise was to the east of Oregon, but not very far to the east. He would be able to work his way westward. He was searching for some way to slip into the area with a backstory already in place—not as a complete newcomer, but as someone who could amiably fit into the small-town society.

Someone very ordinary, of course.

Friendly, outgoing, charming in his way, perhaps a little bit eccentric. Someone who was harmless, who would not hurt a fly.

No, not even a fly.

Not when there were ten humans to kill.


	6. Sunburn and Starshine

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(June 8, 2015)**

**6: Sunburn and Starshine**

Dipper had been back home at the Shack for an hour when Teek drove into the lot in his Focus and Mabel climbed out, went around to the driver's window, and leaned in to kiss him. Dipper, staring out the upstairs window—the one with the window seat, the one that looked something like Bill Cipher—saw the kiss and saw his sister come bopping in as Teek drove off. Dipper went back to his bedroom and sat down on the foot of his bed, opening his latest Journal and pretending to write in it.

He heard Mabel pounding up the stairs, and a moment later the door burst open. "Hiya, Broman!" Mabel said, trotting across the floor to throw herself onto her old bed, making the springs squeak. "Ooo! I had such a  _great_  day!"

"You look kind of sunburned," Dipper said, laying his Journal aside, and it was true. Mabel's face was a bright, hot, pink.

"Yeah, I did, a little," she said, pressing her finger against her sunburned calf and watching the skin turn pale from the pressure before the sunburn flooded it pink again.

Dipper said, with a tiny sarcastic edge, "I thought you had sunscreen."

She missed his tone and just shrugged. "Yeah, I did, but you know, what with the excitement of the moment and seeing Teek again, and having him all to myself for six hours, I just forgot."

"Mm-hmm."

Mabel raised herself up on one elbow. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dipper said. "I just—I worry about you, you know? I mean, you've had so many bad romances—"

Mabel blew a raspberry: "Phbbblt! Come  _on_ , Dipper, this is Teek we're talking about! He's a perfect gentleman! What, do you actually believe that when we got way out on the lake, I tried to talk him into stripping so we could skinny-dip? 'Cause he totally wouldn't do that."

"No, I didn't—wait, why did you sound so disappointed at the end there? Did you ask him to—"

"Dipper!" Mabel got off her old bed and crossed to sit beside him on the foot of his. "Get real. Are we really gonna do this? Fight about who I like, I mean? I never ask you details about  _your_ love life, do I?"

"No," Dipper admitted. "You just make them up."

Ignoring the last part, Mabel added, "And you  _like_  Teek, don't you?"

Dipper shrugged. "Yeah, he's a great guy. His wearing Robbie's old hoodie sort of touched a nerve, I have to admit. And really, I'm kinda surprised you like him so much. I mean, let's be honest, he's frankly a little bit of a dweeb."

She laughed. " _Dweeb_? That's a Wendy word! Anyways, yeah, I know, he's kinda awkward and dorky, but he's kind and considerate, and we're real fond of each other. Still not sure it's true love, but I like what we got. OK, I'm not gonna do this all summer, but I'll tell you this one time: Teek and me are behaving ourselves."

"Teek and I," Dipper said automatically.

Silence weighed heavy for a few seconds. "Yeah, you probably wouldn't even hold my hand if we were standing in the Zodiac and Bill Cipher was about to kill us all, huh?" Mabel asked, getting a little huffy.

Dipper felt a sudden pang as he remembered the foolish argument between Stan and Ford that had nearly doomed the Earth itself. "Sorry. Uh. I—Mabel, I'm sorry I said that."

He had another flash of memory: Back when he and Mabel were twelve, not long after Stanley's thirty-year effort had finally repaired the Portal and rescued his long-lost twin brother from an insane wilderness of dimensions, Stan and Ford had endlessly and bitterly argued—Stan resentful that Ford didn't even appreciate his dedication and struggle, Ford incensed that Stanley had done something that threatened the very fabric of reality.

Back then, an apprehensive Mabel had asked Dipper, "You don't think we'll turn out like Ford and Stan, do you?" He had assured her that the two of them would never get all stupid.

Now he sadly muttered, "I worry about you, OK? But you and me—we're still best friends."

Mabel smiled. "I see what you did there, Brobro." Then she asked softly, "Gonna see Wendy tonight?"

"Yeah, she's coming over later," Dipper said. "She's gonna catch us up on Gideon and his werewolf problem. And I've got some progress to report in the manatee kidnapping, but not a whole lot."

"Oh! Oh!" Mabel said, bouncing on the bed. "That reminds me! I talked to Mr. Poolcheck before Teek drove us back. I explained that I needed to get into the pool area once a day to check for messages, and we have a standing appointment now for me to be over there at eight-thirty every morning and he'll let me in, 'cause he's tired of collecting the bottles, he says! I start tomorrow!"

"Uh—way to go, I guess," Dipper said. "But be careful. I don't think the guy's too emotionally stable."

"I won't alienate him! Did you know one of his hands is—"

"Bio-mechanical, yes," Dipper said. "Accident with the pool filter a few years back. Did you know Fiddleford made his prosthetic?"

"No! Wow!"

"Yeah, it's one of Fiddleford's patents now. Anyway, I can tell you about what Ford and I are planning, or maybe better, we could wait until Wendy gets here so I'll only have to go through it once."

"I'll wait," Mabel said, squirming. "Ouch! Do you mind—?"

She didn't wait to find out whether he did or didn't, but pulled her blue sweater—the sun reflecting on water—over her head. "Oof! My arms are stinging."

"Sunburned," Dipper said. Both of her arms looked painfully pink. He stared at the point where the pink vanished under the sleeve of her white undershirt.

And she caught him staring. "Oh, for Pete's sake!" She reached over and pulled the sleeve up three inches. The sunburn ended in a crisp line and her pale skin began again. "See? No skinny-dipping!"

"Sorry," Dipper said again.

"Yeah," she said, sounding a little down. "He wouldn't. It's OK, though." She brightened immediately. "We got a whole summer to go!"

* * *

"Yeah," Wendy said that afternoon as they sat in the bonfire glade, "So Gideon didn't change when the moon was full last week. He got real edgy, his folks say, and paced around for about two hours, feelin' off and havin', like, stomach pains, but he didn't grow a tail or fangs or anything. Ulva, though—she had to go into the cage. I mean, she turns into a full-body wolf! Can't turn back until the moon's past full again, at least without straining herself.."

"I can't get over Gideon being a werewolf," Mabel said.

"Show her the video," Dipper told Wendy. To Mabel, he explained, "Same set-up as the one we saw the next night, when nothing happened. Grunkle Ford had a camera in Gideon's room, and Wendy got a copy so I could see it. Grunkle Ford couldn't figure out how to attach one to an email."

Wendy pulled out her phone. "This was back in May," she said. "It was, what, Dip? The sixth transformation for him?"

"Fifth," Dipper corrected. "If it had been the sixth, it would have been a lot harder to cure him. And if it had gone on for a year, probably no cure would have worked."

"What happened to Gideon last year?" Mabel asked, holding Wendy's phone and gazing at the screen. "He looks so much better!"

"Just wait," Dipper said.

On the phone screen, Gideon, in a large metal dog kennel—though it was inside a room—twitched, blinked, jerked, and changed, ripping off his shirt—or pajama top, it looked like—and then writhing as his ears elongated and sprouted fur, his nose blackened and became a dog-like squashed orb, his teeth transformed into fangs, and he grew hair all over his torso and face. The video ended abruptly.

"See?" Dipper asked. "Not so hot when he's all furry."

"Yeah, that's what _you_  think," Mabel said, handing the phone back to Wendy. " _Rrrow!_  Who's Ulva?"

"I told you about her," Dipper reminded her. "She's a Gravity Falls werewolf. Girl about thirteen or fourteen, but both of her parents are lycans—that means full-transformation werewolf, one that can take wolf shape, not just become a hairy human monster—and her dad's dead and her mother's missing, and she seems to have imprinted on Gideon."

"Like a tattoo?" Mabel asked.

"Nah," Wendy said. "Like—well, remember how you and Waddles got so close so fast? Or like a puppy decidin' the kid in the family is its best friend forever. When her pack threw her out, she didn't have anywhere to belong, so she came lookin' for Gideon. His family's taken her in temporarily, and I'm really kinda worried about her—with her right there in the house and so, so  _devoted_ to him, it'd be easy for Gideon to take advantage of her."

"Wendy and I kinda thought that trying to find Ulva's mother would be our first investigation," Dipper said. "But then this Mermando business came along—"

"Don't  _scratch_  it, girl," Wendy said, and Mabel stopped scraping her bare arms.

Mabel had not donned another sweater, and grimacing, she rubbed her sunburn. "It hurts now," she said. "And it's itchy."

"I'll drive you back to the house and give you something for that," Wendy told her. "My aunt Sally gave me a recipe years ago. Aloe, tea, witch hazel, some other ingredients. It's a lotion that really helps. Are you drinkin' lots of water?"

"Uh, not more than normal—"

"OK, before we go, you drink at least twelve ounces of water, then twelve ounces every other hour, all day," Wendy said. "Keep hydrated. Tonight, don't take a shower, take a cool bath, no soap or bubble bath. Instead, pour a cup of apple cider vinegar in the tub. Then before you go to bed, rub in some of the aloe lotion I'll give you. And wear sunscreen from now on!"

"Teek got sunburned, too," Mabel said.

"They forgot to put on the sunscreen," Dipper told Wendy.

"I'll give you enough lotion so you guys can share," Wendy said. "Remember, when you're out on the water, you got the reflected sun as well as the normal sun. It's twice as easy to get sunburned. Girl, you are gonna peel like crazy—and Robbie and Tambry's wedding is coming up on Friday!"

"I forgot!" Mabel said. "And my dress is sleeveless!"

"Nobody will be looking at you," Dipper said.

"They  _better_ be!" Mabel retorted.

"It's OK," Wendy assured her. "This is Gravity Falls. People have seen worse. I remember when the woodpecker guy got married, his mother-in-law was molting."

"All right, all right," Dipper said. "Let's do wedding plans later. I'll wrap this up." He had notes, and flipping through them, he quickly filled the two girls in on what he and Ford had discovered about the possible buyer of the illegally-caught manatee. As he finished, he added, "Stan says that he'll go along if we want to use the  _Stan O'Wa_ _r II._ We're not sure, but there's like a fifty-fifty chance that the ship transporting Sirenia hasn't reached port yet. It has a long way to go, and it touches at a bunch of places between Key West—that's where it would have sailed from—and Seattle. Ford's gonna try to track down its shipping records between now and tomorrow noon."

"And I still have my job in the Shack to do," Wendy said. "Man, these first weeks of May are crazy! And it just gets worse up past the Fourth of July. Dip, can you help out tomorrow in the gift shop?"

"Sure," he told her.

"I'll help Teek in the snack bar!" Mabel volunteered.

Wendy stood up. "OK, let's go over to Casa Catastrophe before the sun goes down. Oh, you guys will have to excuse the stink over there. I spent two hours gutting, filleting, and skinning fish!"

Manly Dan, proud of his catch, invited the Pines twins to stay for a fish dinner. Dipper helped Wendy fry the fillets, while Mabel played a video game with the two younger Corduroy boys. Though fish wasn't her favorite food, Mabel had to admit that the rainbow trout fillets were mouth-watering. After the meal, Dan and the boys lounged in front of the TV, while Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy cleaned up.

Wendy mixed the sunburn lotion, poured it into a clean bottle that had once held salad dressing and capped it, made Mabel drink another glass of water, and then drove the twins back over to the Mystery Shack. "Now," she told Mabel, "You go run a tub of cool water, pour in a cup of apple cider vinegar—I know there's an unopened gallon jug in the pantry, bottom shelf, left side—and soak in that for about fifteen minutes. Then pat dry and rub on the lotion wherever you're burned. You need me to do your back?"

"Back's not burned," Mabel said. "Just my neck, face, arms, and legs. Same with Teek."

"Aw, too bad," Wendy said with a grin.

" _Don't_  get her started," Dipper warned.

"Well, use the lotion, wear somethin' soft to sleep in, and you'll start to feel better in a day or two."

"Thanks," Mabel said, going inside.

Night had fallen. Dipper and Wendy walked out to the clearing and sat on the log, alone, as the stars came out. "So," Dipper said, "Dad knows about us."

Wendy sighed. "Yeah, he kinda jumped me back when you were in the hospital with your twisted ankle," Wendy said. "I guess I was off my guard, worried about you and all, and I spilled the beans. But he's OK with it. He told me he's a little younger'n your mom."

"That's something I didn't know," Dipper admitted. "I always thought they were the same age—I mean, they celebrate their birthdays, but they never mention their ages."

"Yeah, well, now you know," she said. "Might be worth rememberin' when you turn eighteen and we tell her about our plans."

He reached to hold her hand. – _Are you and I going to keep doing crazy investigations like this later on?_ he asked her mentally.

He felt her warm affection, touched with fond amusement:  _I hope so! I get a kick out of it—'specially because I can see how excited you get, Dip._

— _Ford warns me that if I make a career out of this, seventy per cent of the population will think I'm a crank or a nutcase._

_Screw 'em. I'll never think that, though._

— _Thanks, Magic Girl! Hey, my folks shipped my guitar up. I've got about a dozen songs I want to play for you when we get time._

_I'd like that, Dip. But tomorrow looks like it's gonna shape up to be a long day. Maybe we should—_

— _Say goodnight._ Dipper sighed.

Wendy chuckled softly. "Not what I was gonna say, dude," she whispered in his ear. Then, through their contact telepathy, she clarified:  _I was gonna say maybe we should get . . . busy._

When she kissed him, he tasted the peppermint candy she had been holding in her mouth.

Very sweet.


	7. The Problem of Imprinting

**Save the Manatee!** n

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(Tuesday, June 9, 2015)**

**7: The Problem of Imprinting**

Wendy had been right about the flood of tourists. Dipper had never worked as hard in his life as he did in the gift shop, smiling until his cheeks hurt as middle-aged couples and their teens, or young couples and their toddlers, or grandpas and grandmas with a mix of both, lined up with the most absurd, overpriced junk he could imagine, and he cheerfully took their money.

He began to understand Stan's very peculiar genius: He'd been a flop as a salesman because as a young man he hadn't learned the true trick, the one he'd shaped and polished when he took over the Shack.

In the end, he was selling . . . himself!

And his boisterous, rough charm was what had allowed him to make enough money over the years to repair the Portal and retrieve his brother. Soos, now Mr. Mystery, was different—he believed in the Shack. Really believed in it.

Not as a place of true mysteries—the mermaid was still a monkey's torso sewn onto a fish's butt—but as a place where dreams are born. The big guy's approach was that of a man-child, awake to wide-eyed wonder, and he communicated that to the tourists he took out on the Mystery Trail. And Wendy was so laid-back and friendly that the visitors fell into the mood. Soos didn't have to con them. They conned themselves, joyfully joining the game of make-believe.

So, when Dipper sold a genuine good-luck horseshoe going back to the 1500s and originally nailed to the hoof of magician Dr. John Dee's horse—and it was actually a worn-out, used shoe collected from a horse farm in Redmond, one in a batch Stan had bought by the hundredweight—when he sold it, he always told the buyer, "When you nail it up over your door, make sure the curve is downward. That'll hold the good luck in!" And the purchaser would thank him, or laugh, or look impressed, and never think to question the fifty-dollar price for what was essentially thirty-five cents worth of scrap metal.

That morning Dipper made that very sale, and two customers down the line, a guy had complained, "I really wanted that horse shoe! I'm real interested in the magicians in Queen Elizabeth the First's time!"

"Well," Dipper said, "a horse has four feet, you know! Miss Corduroy? Are there any John Dee's horseshoes left in inventory?"

"I'll go check, Dipper!" Wendy vanished through the  _Staff Only_ door, then reappeared, shrugging. "Just the one we have nailed up, dude!"

"Could I buy it?" the man asked.

"Um—I don't know. Mr. Mystery thinks a lot of it!" Wendy said.

"I'll pay anything!"

Dipper pretended to ponder. "Um—Miss Corduroy? I think Mr. Mystery was planning to replace it with that other good-luck charm, wasn't he?"

Wendy's eyes widened. "You're right! Uh—would you go a hundred bucks?" she asked the mark.

"You got it!"

"'Cause I might be getting both Dip and myself in trouble . . . but, OK, if it makes you happy. Just a sec."

She went back, took another shoe out of a basket full of them, stuck a rusty, bent nail (half a dozen were nailed into a balsa-wood block) through one of the holes, counted to twenty, and then came back out. "Pried the nail out myself," she said, handing the shoe to the customer. "Hundred bucks, Dip!"

And the happy rube turned over five twenties and scuttled away with his treasure.

When the morning rush slacked off, Wendy came over and high-fived Dipper. "Hey, dude," she said, "if your career plans fall through, you and me can go on the road as con artists!"

Mabel, still pink, came from the snack bar, looking frazzled. "Anybody want lunch?" she asked.

"Got any food left?" Dipper asked her. "Soos must be setting records. He'll have to expand this place if business gets any better!"

"You think this is bad, wait until Friday and Saturday—oh, no, wait, we're off on Friday 'cause of the wedding. But weekends are crazy houses now!"

"You guys go while there's a lull," Mabel said, sliding onto the stool that Dipper had just vacated. She took the gift-shop cash register duty, Abuelita took over as clerk in the snack bar, and Dipper and Wendy had time to grab and split a burger. "Man," Wendy said. "OK, dude, time to get serious. Your ankle holding up OK?"

"Yeah," he said. "Fully healed."

"And my room's cleaned up, and I got the guys helping out a little at the house now, so tomorrow early—we run, right?"

"I've missed that," Dipper said. "Nature trail?"

"Perfect! Seven-fifteen on the lawn to warm up. Don't lame out!"

"It's a date," Dipper said.

* * *

The afternoon was marginally less busy. By six, when the Shack closed for the day, Dipper's brain felt numb, and his face ached from smiling. "Dad's not expecting me back until eleven," Wendy said. "So let's eat and get over to Gideon's house. I told him we'd be there 'round seven-thirty."

"I don't want dinner," Mabel groaned. "I wanna go soak in the tub and put on some of that sunburn lotion."

"Aah!" Dipper yelled in mock alarm. "It's the Shapeshifter! What have you done with Mabel?"

"Feels like it barbecued me," Mabel moaned. "OK if I go freshen up before we leave?"

"Sure," Wendy said. "Teek comin'?"

"No, he's burned worse than I am." It was true—Teek looked like a lobster ready to serve. He hadn't even worn his usual apron because the strap tied behind his red neck, and he couldn't stand the touch.

"I'm going to do the same thing as Mabel back home," he said. "And then I'm going to try to get some sleep. Thanks for the lotion, Wendy. It does help."

"My aunt Sally's recipe, man," Wendy said. "Never fails. It'll be better tomorrow, and by Friday, your burn will start to peel off."

"Great," Mabel groaned. "I'll go to Tambry's wedding looking like a snake shedding its skin."

While she bathed and anointed her burns, Dipper and Wendy had dinner with the Ramirezes. Harmony, barely a month old, was there, in Melody's arms. Little Soos kept pointing at her proudly. "Iddle sisser!"

Abuelita had prepared grilled chicken with chili-lime sauce, Mexican rice, and a side of zucchini, onions, chopped poblanos, and corn. Soos ate with his son on his lap, and Little Soos—who must take after his dad, Dipper decided—didn't need the airplane-is-coming-into-the-hangar trick, but ate whatever his dad chopped up for him.

Wendy and Dipper finished up, Soos excused them from cleanup duty—"You dawgs are on a mystery quest! Oh, hey, if you can rescue the manatee lady, see if she knows where I can get, like, a narwhal tusk. I don't mean killing a narwhal, dudes! But if there's one just layin' around on the sea bed somewheres, I could sell it in, like, a second!"

"We'll ask," Dipper promised. "But first, we're going over to see Gideon."

"Oh, well, tell him to expect big tips on Saturday! There's, like, a convention of supernatural-mystery fans comin' in from The Dalles. "

"Sure thing," Wendy said. "Hey, Mabes, ready to go?"

Mabel, still in short sleeves, had come in from her room. "Yeah. But, um—smelling this, I got hungry again. Do I have five minutes to eat?"

"Take ten," Wendy suggested kindly. "No need to get choked!"

Mabel quickly polished off a serving of chicken, rice, and vegetables, then ran back to brush her teeth and returned ready to roll.

In the car, with Dipper beside her in the front seat and Mabel riding shotgun, Wendy warned, "Don't get Bud Gleeful started about the Green Machine. He keeps offerin' to buy my Dart, and he keeps raisin' the offer—but I'm not finished with it yet!"

"Dad's real impressed by how you work on cars," Mabel said.

"I know, Mabes," Wendy said, grinning. Her bare arm was brushing Dipper's, and she thought to him,  _Lucky I was poor and had to get the worst car in the worst condition that I could find and then learn how to fix it!_

— _He would've liked you anyway, Lumberjack Girl. Everybody does._

_Thanks, Dip!_

"You guys!" Mabel complained. "I know you're using that telepathy thingy and cutting me out!"

"We tried to teach you," Dipper told her.

"Yeah, yeah. I've seriously got to try to learn it one of these days."

"Not sure it's something that can be learned," Wendy said. "We got it by jumpin' into Moon Trap Pond, and I don't recommend that."

"Don't you and Teek get any ideas!" Dipper warned. "Numina's not somebody easy to understand. She could've kept us prisoners for eternity. We just lucked out!"

"OK," Mabel said. "Me and Teek will only swim in the pool. Or in the lake."

"That's good," Wendy said.

Darkly, Dipper thought to her, — _I'm not so sure about that._

The Gleefuls and their houseguest Ulva had already eaten dinner. Bud ushered them into the living room, where Dipper, Wendy, and Mabel sat on the sofa. Gideon came in first and greeted them. "Looks like the mumbo-jumbo stuff worked," he said. "Ain't changin' into a hairy monster now! That's a relief! Hey, Mabel, you are sure lookin' fine!"

"Thanks, Gideon," Mabel told him. "What's your secret to weight loss?"

He shrugged. "Oh, same-old same-old. Ease off on the carbs, 'specially sweets, lots of veggies and protein, and work out. I got a set of weights down in the basement, and I do cardio on a stationary bike. Ghost Eyes sorta coaches me."

"Ghost Eyes," Wendy said. "Don't see him around much. What's he up to?"

"Finishin' a business degree at the community college," Gideon said. "Workin' as a trainer at Brass Tacks Gym in Hirschville in the afternoons. He's reformed, like me. Wendy, he don't bear you any ill-will for hurtin' his arm—"

"I know, dude," Wendy said. "He came to the Shack once he got sprung from jail and apologized and then hit on me."

 _"What?"_  Dipper demanded.

"Nah, it's cool," Wendy said. "I turned him down, and we parted as not-enemies."

"So," Mabel said, "I like the way you're wearing your hair!"

"It's teen rebellion," Gideon said, but with a grin. Then he fake-whispered, "It really ain't! But I like the look!"

"How is Ulva doin', man?" Wendy asked.

"She's—well, she's sad all the time. Listen, friends, please be nice with her."

"I'm _always_ nice!" Mabel assured him, too loudly.

"And, uh," Gideon continued, "be soft with your voices, too? She's like a little old half-tamed animal, and she startles easy."

 _Sounds like he's talking about a dog,_  Dipper thought. But he said nothing while Wendy assured Gideon they'd be restrained.

He left and came back holding the hand of a girl who looked to be about his age—thirteen—but she was thin, and though she wore a rather frozen smile on her lips, her gaze was anxious, her chin held low, here eyes seeming to look upward at the visitors, the eyebrows tented. It was the expression of an abashed puppy trying hard to wordlessly apologize for having displeased its master.

Wendy thought, and Dipper caught it,  _She's lookin' better. She was wearin' a thrown-away raggedy dress and one white and one black shoe that she found in the dump!_

Now she wore a loose, baggy sweatshirt, dark gray, over black jeans. She was barefoot, though—her toes rather splayed, apart from each other. Dipper noticed and thought  _She's not really used to shoes. Those are the feet of someone who's almost never worn them._

Gideon settled her in the armchair and stood beside her, holding her hand. And—Ulva just looked at them.

"This is her," Gideon said proudly. "This here is Ulva, and I believe she saved my life."

Ulva perched as though on the edge of running away. The Gleefuls had had her shaggy hair trimmed—it was brown when clean, though oddly streaked with very premature gray—to a close, spiky cut, a little punky but also complimentary to her high-cheeked face. Her eyebrows were darker than her hair, her nose was straight, her mouth wide but thin-lipped. She had a solemn expression. Not a beautiful face, not even a pretty one, but one that a boy could easily learn to love. The feature that struck Dipper most—the eyes. Light brown irises, striped with radians that were nearly white—

_Golden eyes. Beautiful eyes._

Eyes with a load of pain behind them.

Mabel chirped, "Hi, Ulva. I'm Mabel!

Ulva licked her lips nervously and in little more than a croaky whisper, she said, "You are with Gideon friends."

"We are," Dipper said. It wasn't true—they were acquaintances, at least he and Gideon were, but since Weirdmageddon, Dipper hadn't exactly hated the fake-psychic kid, who once had been the only boy that Dipper had ever fought against and bested. However, during Weirdmageddon, Gideon, driven by his need to be loved and his fixation on Mabel, had revolted against Bill Cipher's rule and had done his best, sacrificing his own freedom, to protect Mabel. And true to his promise, he had really, in his own unsteady, unsure way, tried to reform.

Wendy said, "Gideon works where I do, the Mystery Shack."

"Works." Ulva said the word as if it were one that she had never heard.

"Yeah, sweetie," Gideon told her, patting her hand. "See, we human folks can't go out and hunt for our food no more. So, we work, and we get what's called money, remember that? And that lets us buy what we need."

"Buy."

"She's still gettin' the hang of things," Gideon said in a stage whisper.

Mabel got up and went over to the chair where Ulva sat. Ulva cringed toward Gideon—but Mabel hooked over an ottoman and sat on that, next to Ulva, but on a lower level. "Hi," she said softly. "I love your hair like that. Can I touch it?"

Ulva flinched from her touch at first, but then relaxed a little. "Want to touch mine?" Mabel asked.

Ulva extended a tentative hand and stroked Mabel's thick brown hair. "I'm thinking of getting a shorter cut, too," Mabel told her. "Do you like your hair short like that?"

And Ulva actually smiled. She nodded. "Cool."

"Cool as in not warm, or cool as in attractive?" Mabel asked.

Ulva tilted her head quizzically.

 _Dude,_  Wendy thought to Dipper,  _she's just like a puppy!_

Dipper said aloud, "Gideon, why don't we let Mabel and Ulva get acquainted? I think so many of us here make her a little uneasy."

They went into the Gleefuls' back yard, leaving Mabel and Ulva together. Bud had built a redwood gazebo there, and Gideon, Dipper, and Wendy sat on the circular bench inside. "Mabel's sure got a way," Gideon said.

"She's the best people person I've ever met," Wendy told him.

"Yeah, but—she tends to trust a little too easily," Dipper added. "She always thinks people are gonna be so good, and she's always so hurt when they aren't. Uh, no offense, Gideon."

"None taken," the blond boy said. "I reckon I was a real hellion back then. Trouble was, I'm smart, too smart for my own good. Too smart too young, I guess. All that psychic business, I shouldn't have done that. Went to my head. Made me mad with power." He shook his head. "And I still ain't got the knack of learnin' how to make friends."

Dipper grinned. "I feel you, bro!"

Gideon blinked. "Uh—thanks?"

"I'm a dork," Dipper said flatly. "I've got like zero social skills! I mean, I'm on the track team at school, I led the JV to a victory season—but I can't seem to make close friends. I think I always distrust them."

"That's surprising," Gideon said. "I thought you were a natural leader."

"Not me," Dipper said. "Mabel's too open. I'm too closed. It's weird, but—the one place that I truly feel at home is right here in Gravity Falls." He took Wendy's hand. "Here I kinda feel I can trust people. But I hear you, Gideon. It's hard to dig yourself out of a hole."

"That's some deep junk right there," Wendy said, squeezing his hand. Then, as if ready to change the subject, she asked, "So what's gonna happen with Ulva, Gideon?"

He looked unhappy. "I don't know. We can't keep her legally—I mean, she's got a mama out there somewheres. Lord knows where. So far, we ain't made a big thing out of it, but sooner or later the state's gonna start wonderin' who she is, why she ain't enrolled in school, stuff like that. And if she started school, she'd have to begin in first grade! She can't read or nothin'!"

"Sounds to me like you have to find her mother," Dipper said.

"Yeah," Gideon agreed miserably. "But it's gonna be so hard to say—goodbye to her. It ain't like you think. I'm not romanticizin' over her, the way I did with Mabel, 'cause I know it wouldn't ever work out. It's more like—don't laugh at me, please—it's more like I found a dog and rescued it."

"I can see that," Wendy said, with no trace of humor in her voice. "Gideon, you've done some growin' up. I apologize for kickin' you that one time."

Gideon chuckled. "Aw, I deserved that. Little punk too big for my britches! And I was pretty well padded, so it didn't hurt as much as you might think. But you know what? 'Scuse my French, but I believe an ass-kickin' did me some good."

"Yeah," Wendy said. "We can all use one now and then."

Half an hour passed, and then Mabel came out. She joined them silently, sitting next to Dipper. She put her head on his shoulder. "She's so sad," she told them, her voice breaking.

Dipper put his arm around her shoulders and next to him he felt Wendy stiffen for a moment, as if in surprise. "What did she say?" Dipper asked.

Almost whispering, Mabel said, "She thinks her mother must still be in the valley. A lone wolf—and that's the worst thing her people can be. They need the Pack. And she's so confused. Ulva has been in wolf shape for most of her life now. But she likes being human. She's got so much to learn, though—and she'll never make it on her own, not even with Gideon's help. Guys, she needs—"

"Her mother," Wendy finished. "All right. I say we help her. That's on our list for the summer, Dipper."

"I got it," Dipper said. "Gideon—you on board?"

"When you love a thing," Gideon whispered, his voice shaky, "set it free."

Utterly astonishing Dipper, Mabel got up, moved across to Gideon, sat down and hugged him, and let the younger blond boy weep on her sunburned shoulder.

 


	8. All at Sea

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**(Tuesday, June 9, 2015)**

**8: All at Sea**

Ford was lucky to have married an understanding woman. Lorena told him to do what had to be done, and that she would be fine until he wrapped everything up. He thanked her, and with an impish smile, she warned, "But don't forget—you'll owe me!"

And so, on that Tuesday he spent the whole day in his lab beneath the Shack, not even emerging for meals—and discovering, incidentally, that the tiny bathroom (sink and commode) still worked, even after Fiddleford's having transformed the Shack into an automaton that wrenched itself from the earth and stalked around like a robomajig of destruction.

Well, maybe he owed Bill thanks for that. Of course, the wave of normality that had gushed out of the closing Rift and restored most things to their proper conditions probably wasn't Bill's doing. And thinking of that, just where was Bill these days? Dipper had told Ford he couldn't contact the demon in the Mindscape, or at least that he had not been able to so far. Might need to research that. . ..

Ford made some calls and did a great deal of research, not only on manatees but also on the legends and lore of merpeople, sirens, Steller's sea cow, sightings of the Great Sea Serpent, the Bermuda Triangle, the theory of vortexes, and the possibility of teleportation between focal points in the world's oceans. Fascinating stuff.

Then in the late afternoon, at a few minutes past six, his secure telephone rang. He snatched the receiver up—the instrument, as the phone company called it, was vintage 1980, a bright-red rotary-dial thing. Except it had been updated and modified recently and no longer had to be dialed. "Balsam here," Ford said into the mouthpiece, using his old code name.

"Take this down." The voice on the other end of the line might or might not have been human. It was male, but sounded flat and uninflected, like a sophisticated computer-generated artificial voice.

Ford clicked a pen and pulled over a yellow legal pad. "Ready."

"Cargo confirmed, schedule M. Time of sighting 1531. Position positive 32.56001, negative 118.29938. Between 8 and 10k. Bearing NNW."

"Got it."

"Mundane cargo unlading Seven Franko, scheduled thirty-six hours. Custom covered."

"Thirty-six, got it."

"Clara Isabelle Yankee Nola Helen. Chester Elmo."

"All right. I mean Roger," Ford said.

The line went dead. No dial tone—there never was. And anyone who might blunder into the lab and try the phone would never hear one. The dial rotated, but did not work, so no one could place a call out. Any interloper would never suspect that calls were possible only when a six-fingered hand gripped the receiver in a way that let it read fingerprints and gave vocal commands. The voice-recognition software couldn't be fooled even by Stan's expert impression of his brother's voice. It was a very personal phone.

Ford rolled his chair across the room and pulled a greatly oversized book from a tall shelf. He spread it open beneath a gooseneck lamp and found the appropriate ocean chart. Carefully, with ruler and calipers, he found the position—about a hundred nautical miles, give or take, west of San Diego, nearly due south of San Clemente Island. The vessel was heading north by northwest, at a speed of about nine knots.

He could Clara Isabelle Yankee Nola Helen if he needed—or, more mundanely, Call If You Need Help. However, he'd been out of the game for a long, long time—heck, the last time he'd done work for the Agency, not counting informal cooperation, was back during the Reagan Administration, and that had left a bad taste in Ford's mouth. One thing he knew about his old friend the elderly Professor: Stodgy and stuffy and amiable he was, but a man who never forgot if you owed him a favor.

Ford wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be in his old friend's debt.

However, when he checked his electron mail (as he called it—to the Agency it was Chester Elmo, "check email"), he found what looked like a spam ad. Ford briefly wondered why the Internet seemed so preoccupied with canned meat—he had learned the term "spam" from Dipper—but then opened the "Twelve Wacky Ways You Can Grow a Greener Lawn" and discovered a set of aerial photos, obviously taken from a helicopter.

The first showed a harbor—maybe San Diego, but he wasn't sure. The next three zeroed in on a vessel sailing away from that harbor, the last one either taken from an ear-shattering distance of the deck or, more likely, with the aid of a powerful telescopic lens.

The rust-streaked ship was a medium-sized cargo vessel, between five hundred and six hundred feet long, its deck stacked with multicolored cargo containers that looked like railroad boxcars. Rust spattered the fading stencil-painted name, but a caption clarified it:  _Triton Trident_  (Liberia). Crew 22. Armament: Small-A only.

So—the ship's name was  _Triton Trident._ It was registered in Liberia, but that meant nothing, because all over the world, commercial vessels routinely sailed under an F.O.C., or flag of convenience. Whole fleets of Japanese trading ships were nominally Liberian. The registry allowed ship owners to legally operate for lower costs—and under less onerous safety and sailing regulations, truth be told.

Say ten knots . . . the ship would reach Puget Sound—Ford assumed that would be the route—in about four and a half days of constant sailing. Except it would interrupt the trip for a stop in San Francisco that would last an estimated thirty-six hours, to unload cargo—but the San Francisco Customs officials were on the alert and would keep a sharp eye out for contraband.

So, factoring that in . . . they could expect the  _Triton Trident_  to arrive near Puget Sound in about a week.

Ford took out his cell phone—or computer phone as he persisted in calling it—and hit the speed-dial for Stanley.

"Yeah?" came his brother's half-growled greeting.

"Stanley, this is—"

"I know who it is, Poindexter. The phone identifies you, for cryin' out loud."

"Well, anyway, we're on. Can you get up to Vancouver and bring the  _Stan O'War II_  around by yourself?"

"Yeah, sure. Where to? Portland?"

"Yes. I'll arrange for docking there. Charter a plane, all right?"

After a shocked gasp, Stan bellowed, "You're outa your freakin' mind!  _Me,_ fly in one of them itty-bitty crates? I can catch an airline flight, if I have to, probably, I can barely stand that—"

"You have to get there by tonight and leave first thing in the morning," Ford insisted. "We need to be ready, and we haven't much time."

Ford heard Stanley sigh. "Ford, I'd do nearly anything—but not that. I'm sorry. Call me a chicken if you want to, but—"

"No, no, I understand phobias." Ford thought for a moment. "I suppose I can do it myself. I'll leave immediately. I'm pretty sure Creighton will fly me up this evening."

"Creighton? He the guy owns the sight-seeing company?"

"Yes, up in Hood River."

"For cryin' out loud!" Stanley wailed. "You're goin' by  _helicopter_?"

"No, no, Creighton also has a Citation."

Dripping with sarcasm, Stanley's voice came back: "Well, hooray for him!"

Ford pushed up his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "That's a small passenger jet, Stanley. He does charter flights. I'll call him and let you know the plans."

"Wait, wait—first tell me, how much time we got?"

"I estimate the ship will be off Cape Flattery about one week from today."

Silence, and then, "Ford—you're nuts. It ain't that big of a crisis! Look, let's you and me fly up tomorrow morning. Hang on, let me see, let me get this cockamamie computer runnin'. All right, here we go. Air Canada flight at, sheesh, 6:25, we can get to Vancouver by 7:30. That puts us in the boat around 9:00. We cast off and sail steady, we can be in Portland by, like, noon Thursday at the latest. If the ship ain't gonna be in the vicinity until the following Tuesday—"

Grudgingly, Ford said, "You're right, Stanley. That makes more sense. And with both of us to sail the boat, we can travel all night. Very well. I'll make a call to the marina for them to get the  _Stan O' War II_  ready and stocked for travel, you pack, and I'll return to McGucket's house right away. Don't forget, you'll need your passport. Oh, and I'll call Mason to let him know what we're planning."

"What  _are_  we planning?" Stan asked. "What, we gonna set off in the  _Stan O'War_  to force a big cargo ship to drop anchor?"

"Well," Ford said, "that was sort of my first idea, yes."

"Sounds like we got long odds," Stanley said. "Like, the ship's what, a great big cargo vessel?"

"Yes. Well, a moderate-sized one, anyway."

"Big crew, though?"

"My information says twenty-two, probably armed with rifles."

"Twenty-two armed men against us two, huh? One of us that fights with his fists and the other one a nerd with, what, a magnet gun?"

"Um, that's about right. As far as I can tell."

Stan laughed. "I  _like_ it! We'll take off tomorrow morning around three-thirty, Ford. My car or your car, I don't care which, but I'll do the driving."

"Thank you, Stanley."

"You're welcome, Brainiac. Only let's don't get killed."

"It's a deal," Ford said.

* * *

That evening, responding to Ford's summons, Wendy drove Dipper and Mabel over to the McGucket mansion, where they met Ford and Stanley in the library. Ford briefly explained that they had a lead on the ship, and Stan said, "OK, the ship's comin' toward Puget Sound, but we got like until next Tuesday noon before it shows up. Me and Ford are gonna give it a reception party in the  _Stan O'War II_ —"

Dipper cut in: "No. Call the Coast Guard."

"—but there might be gunplay, so you can't—wait, what?"

"Listen to him, Stanley," Ford said.

"Call the Coast Guard," Dipper repeated calmly. "They're hauling contraband cargo. Manatees are under federal protection. As soon as the ship's inside the twelve-mile limit, the Coast Guard can board and search it."

Stan frowned. "You sure about that?"

Wendy put her arm around Dipper's shoulders. "Stan, if Dipper says it, he's sure of it."

"All you have to do," Dipper said, "is give them reasonable cause to believe the ship may be carrying contraband."

"What would that be, though?" Ford asked.

"Mermando's notes!" Mabel said.

Stan shook his head. "Uh, Sweetie, I'm not sure that the U.S. Coast Guard's gonna take the word of a half-man, half-fish seriously."

"Or," Dipper said, "if we can get the name of the guy in the Gulf who trapped Sirenia, he probably has a criminal record. That would do it. Alternately, if we can nail down the buyer, that might be enough, too."

Stan frowned. "How would we nail—oh, yeah, your list of suspects!"

"That's right!" Ford said. "I got so wrapped up in finding which was the most likely ship that I let that slide."

"Sounds to me like it's time to pick up that thread again," Wendy said. "OK, Mystery Team, we have until Thursday noon!"

"Thursday? Why that deadline?" Ford asked.

Wendy reached out to hug Mabel with her free arm. "'Cause, dude, me and Mabel are gonna have to be in the rehearsal for Tambry and Robbie's wedding!"

"Rehearsal's Thursday evening, and the wedding's at nine o'clock on Friday night!" Mabel added.

Ford and Stanley looked at each other. Stan said, "Pumpkin, I know that's a big thing with you gals, but isn't this manatee thing more important?"

"No!" Mabel said, her expression fierce. "I  _planned_  this wedding! The bride wears black! Instead of doves, we release bats! I wanted it at midnight, but—"

"Yeesh!" Stan said. "Is it a wedding or a haunted house?"

"It's a Goth thing," Dipper told him. "OK, I'm not in the wedding party, but I am invited, so I'll do what I can to help up until Friday night. Let's see if in the time we have until the ship gets in range we can zero in on who caught Sirenia—and who she's being delivered to."

"And I," Mabel said, "will alert Mermando!"

"You want us to put the werewolf thing on the back burner?" Wendy asked her.

"Ulva is being protected by the Gleefuls," Mabel said. "Gideon's not wolfing out any more. How much harm could a little delay do?"

"I somewhat reluctantly agree," Ford said. "All right, ladies. Do what you must do."

"We'll take care of the rest," Stan added.

"It looks," Dipper said, "like it's shaping up to be a busy summer."


	9. Busy Day, Busy Night

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**9: Busy Day, Busy Night**

**(Wednesday, June 10, 2015)**

The next couple of days looked to be exhausting. On Wednesday the tourist flood didn't ebb at all, though Soos assured them, "We'll have a little ease-off after the Fourth of July, guys." Meanwhile, to cover Friday, he had made arrangements: Tad Strange, who had worked retail before becoming Sev'ral Timez's road manager, would come in on register duty. Melody would help on the floor, while Abuelita baby-sat.

On Wednesday, right after work, the gang collapsed to rest. "Well," Mabel said with a shrug, "Mr. Strange probably won't hurt sales. He's bizarrely normal, but he does agree with everything people say, so if somebody asks, oh, 'Will this monkey paw grant me three wishes?' he'll smile and repeat, 'This monkey paw will grant you three wishes.'"

"Where'd you hear of that story?" Dipper asked her. They, and Wendy, were sitting sprawled in the parlor after the long, tiring day.

"Read it in the English textbook," Mabel reminded him.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I read it a long time ago, so I sort of skipped over it when we came to it."

"Do monkeys  _have_  paws?" Wendy asked, yawning.

"Yep," Mabel said in a cracked, imitation-Fiddleford accent. "Ever' dang monkey's got a paw and a maw, too, by cracky! Nyuk-nyuk!"

Dipper hit her with a cushion.

"Hey!" she said, bopping him back with it. "Cut it out, Brobro! I got a date tonight. I have to look my best!"

"Where you and Teek goin'?" Wendy asked.

Mabel grinned. "Oh . . . he's gonna surprise me." The door opened, and she jumped up. "There he is now!"

And sure enough, Teek, wearing Robbie's old hoodie—though he left it unzipped—came in. Though he had changed from thick Harry Potter-style specs to contacts, he still peered as if near-sighted. "Hi," he said to Mabel. "You look tired. Are you up for this?"

"Ready!" Mabel said. "Let me get my purse!" She galloped back to her room.

"Where you guys going?" Dipper asked.

Teek shrugged. "I really don't know. Mabel said it was a surprise."

Dipper's eyes narrowed. "I . . . see. Well, don't forget, she's supposed to be home by eleven. Wedding rehearsal tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know," Teek said. "We won't miss curfew."

Mabel came back. "Let's go!"

"Bye, Mabel," Wendy said. "Hope the surprise isn't too much for you."

"Bye!" Mabel said hastily, and she and Teek charged out.

Wendy had been on the sofa. She slipped off and sat beside Dipper on the floor, reaching to take his hand.  _I can feel that you're upset._

— _She didn't have to lie to us!_

_I think she'll be OK, dude. We had a talk. She's not on the brink of doin' something stupid, and Teek's a stand-up guy._

Miserably, Dipper thought,  _—I know, I know. If she didn't have such a history of bad choices, I'd feel better. And she's—she's—_

_Impulsive, Dip. That's the word I think you're looking for._

— _Yeah. I mean, Robbie and Tambry were that kind of impulsive, and she could have gotten in bad trouble._

_They'll be married and legal in a couple days, Dip. Hey, face it, one day Mabel's gonna meet the right guy, they'll connect, and she'll wind up married, too._

— _I know, I know. But not when she's fifteen!_

He felt Wendy's affectionate amusement.  _You got another age in mind for her?_

— _Twenty-eight._

Wendy laughed out loud at that. "No way, man! 'Cause if she waited that long, she'd insist you'd wait that long, and dude—I  _can't_  wait that long!"

Dipper got up and reached for her hand. "Go for a walk?"

"Yeah, man. But remember, we're gonna do our run again tomorrow morning."

"So?" he asked.

"So, that's all the exercise we need."

Dipper frowned as they walked out the door and headed down the path to the bonfire clearing. "I don't get what you mean."

"I mean running's our exercise, Dip," Wendy said. "Not wrestling."

"Aww—"

She laughed again as they walked in the warm evening air. They were still holding hands, and she felt his flash of embarrassment. "C'mon," she said. "I'll take your mind off your worries—for a little while, anyway."

And eagerness replaced his embarrassment . . ..

* * *

Stanford Pines had spent most of the day in front of one of Fiddleford's enormous computer monitors, studying blowups of aerial photos until his eyes watered. The Professor had arranged for them and had routed them to Stanford.

Most of the images were satellite views, but others had been taken in flyovers by, well, official aircraft. Ford had made extensive notes:

* * *

_Of the four possibilities Mason turned up, only two appear to be serious contenders as possible purchasers of a captured manatee._

_Cholmondeley St. Riffincolombeck and his wife seem to be out as suspects. They live in Canada, so no airplane images, but satellite photos of their estate are clear—inland, large, with only a four-car garage as outbuilding. No space for a huge aquarium, no visible facilities for handling water, food demands, etc. Also, from mid-May on, they're off on extended European vacation until August._

_Martina Marinopolous—not credible as suspect. Lives far inland. Has two Olympic-sized pools, but uses them only for swimming. Also: Currently is dating a wealthy movie star 15 years younger than she is. He seems to be her main interest in life. She does keep tropical fish, but nothing larger than an angelfish. All freshwater._

_Joseph Bascombe. Possibility. Lives in unassuming house overlooking Dungeness Bay, but also owns houses on either side of his own, plus a warehouse-like building near the water, plus a seventy-five foot yacht. When he lived in Florida, was a fishing guide but also suspected contraband runner (guns and drugs). Was prosecuted for illegally helping fishermen catch Florida sturgeon, case dismissed, lack of evidence; investigated for allegedly helping a Belize aquarium capture a baby right whale (animal died in transit), but evidence too weak for prosecution. Has space, vessel, and facilities—would he want a manatee? Why?_

_Thomaso Antoni Voillelli. Possibilty. Lives on island in Puget Sound, American waters: "Hermit Island." Only satellite imagery available. Complex is large, including what may be an aquarium—machinery for handling water, etc. might be housed in large building, pipes lead from it to an even larger structure with skylight. Pipes evidently heated to prevent freezing. Voillelli a shadowy figure. Agency hints that he was high-level crime figure who turned informant, is in witness protection. It is a certainty that when he had house in Florida Keys, he had huge saltwater pool and stocked with sharks. Rumors are that he fed enemies to them. Island dock has five craft of various sizes, the largest about 70 feet. But again—why a manatee? Anyway, will concentrate on these last two as possibilities._

* * *

His cell phone beeped, and he checked it. A message: "TT prays to St. Francis." Ford smiled. If he tried to reply, he'd get the response  _No such number._ The message was code: The  _Triton Trident_  was about to dock in San Francisco. The California Customs people would keep a close watch.

Ford wished that he could have persuaded them to board and search—but the vessel had a clean record, no complaint had ever been lodged against the owners or the captain, and Customs was leery about the legal stink that might arise.

Stopping the vessel in international waters, now—the Agency would prefer that. It just made Ford nervous.

"Which one, which one?" he muttered. He expected that would resolve when the  _Triton Trident_ neared or entered Puget Sound. One or the other of the suspects would set out in a large boat for the transfer.

Except that would give them very little notice. Cutting it close. Cutting it very uncomfortably close.

* * *

Teek parked in the lot of the municipal pool. "I am not going skinny-dipping," he said firmly.

"Who asked you to?" Mabel said. "I just have to send a note to my ex."

They trekked into the forested strip of land, Teek used a crowbar to raise the maintenance access cover, and Mabel tossed the bottle in. "Close it now."

Grunting as the metal cover clanked back, Teek asked, "How did you ever fall in love with a merman, anyhow?"

She punched his shoulder. "You're jealous!"

"No," he said, rubbing his shoulder. "Just curious."

"Oh, well." She shrugged. "I wouldn't say I was in love with him. Interested. Intrigued. And he could play a chord on the guitar!"

"Oh." Teek didn't play the guitar. He wasn't bad with a harmonica, but so far, no girl he'd met swooned to the notes of "Polly Wolly Doodle."

"OK, I was young," Mabel said.

"Twelve."

"Yeah, young."

"Three years younger than you are now."

"If you want to be  _technical_. Anyways, you gotta understand, I'd never been away from home before, not really. Sleepovers now and then, just overnight, and not many of them. In school I was Weird Mabel, and I didn't—well, I didn't have many friends. And my folks never even sent me and Dipper to summer camp. That summer we were nearly a thousand miles from home, in a new place with trees and grass and things, and I really wanted an epic summer romance like the ones in the movies!"

Gently, with not a trace of mockery, Teek said, "Dipper says you didn't really get one."

They reached Teek's car and climbed inside. From the front seats they could see the flat water of the swimming pool, a blue strip beneath the late-afternoon sky. They still had a couple of hours of daylight left.

Mabel wilted a little. "Nah, I didn't get much of a romance. My first crush turned out to be a pile of Gnomes. Then Mermando. Sev'ral Timez. Gabe. None of them worked out. That summer—it wasn't pretty." She sighed. "Know what? There's a tree not far from the Shack where I carved my name and the names of my crushes. Next to last day of the summer, I went out there and carved MABEL + MABEL. I kinda thought I was all I had left."

Teek put his arm around her shoulders. "Well, now we have each other."

"Yeah. Teek, do I come on too strong?"

He laughed. "Why?"

She shrugged and reached up with her left hand to hold his right, draped over her shoulder. "Well, Wendy says I push too hard. Apparently, sometimes asking a guy if he wants to get married is the wrong thing to do, if it's only the second sentence you've spoken to him. Or that's what she says."

"I think it's what makes you Mabel," he said quietly. "Your enthusiasm can be a little bit scary for guys—anyway for me—but you're funny and sweet and pretty, and it's always exciting to be around you. And—I don't know how to say this. You're the first girlfriend I ever had—"

"And only?"

"What do _you_  think? Yeah, the only one, too. So far. Ouch!"

She'd elbowed him hard. "And for the foreseeable future?"

"Sure," taking his arm from around her to rub his bruised ribs. "Anyway, you're my first girlfriend. I'd never kissed a girl before you. And I like kissing you and holding you—but I don't want to hurt you. I don't want us to get—you know—carried away, I guess, and do something that we'd both be sorry for."

"So, no skinny-dipping."

"Not," Teek said, "for the foreseeable future." He kissed her.

"Mermando," she murmured, "was my first kiss. But by then I knew it couldn't work out. I'm a mammal, he's a fish, you know. It was like, yikes."

"Yeah, how would you raise the kids?" Teek asked.

"I've wondered about him and his wife and that," Mabel said. "Dipper says manatees are mammals, like people. They don't have gills, the way fish and merpeople do. Kids? I mean, Mermando's marriage was, like, an arranged thing. To stave off a war or something. Can he and his wife even _have_  kids? And would they start out as tadpoles? And if they do—oh, there it is!"

Teek had seen it, too: a sudden, silent, golden flash of light in the pool water. Mermando had sent his answer.

"What time is it?" Mabel asked.

Teek checked his phone. "Uh, nearly eight."

"OK, then Poolcheck's already made his evening rounds. Let's go!"

They left the car and Mabel picked the padlock. "You stand guard."

He did, nervously. Though a row of hedges mostly screened off the parking lot, cars did cruise by past the entrance. He zipped the hoodie and stood still, trying to look like an ornamental plant.

Mabel came back holding a dripping bottle. She closed and relocked the gate. "Come on!"

In the car she shook the rolled-up message out and read aloud:

* * *

 _My dearest Mabel_ —

* * *

"Skip any mushy parts," Teek grumbled.

"OK, OK. Where was I?"

* * *

_Thank you for your information. The dolphins are tracking the ship. It is turning into the cold bay of San Francisco. They will guard the entrance of the harbor and follow it again when it emerges. They know Sirenia is aboard. They can hear her faint cries for help and have assured her help will come._

_I will be there early Tuesday morning. In the sea. If you can get another speaking horn like the one you gave me, call my name every few minutes. The dolphins will hear. When you see dolphins around your boat, wave a flag. They will lead you to me, my—_

* * *

"My what?" Teek asked as she broke off.

"Um—my old friend," Mabel said.

"I bet."

"Well, he certainly didn't call me  _my first love,_  if that's what you're implying!" Mabel said.

"You hungry?" Teek asked, giving up.

Mabel hastily rolled up the note again. "Yeah, I am! Um—Ok, how about The Farm Table out toward Morris?"

"I like their food, that's good for me," Teek said, starting the car.

"And the night will still be young. So after—Lookout Point?"

Teek smiled. "Fine with me," he said.

"Sweet!"

They headed off for dinner. And dessert.


	10. Kiss the Bride

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**10: Kiss the Bride**

**(June 11-12, 2015)**

Robbie's parents were fine with Mabel's decorations. The jovial funeral directors approved of the black curtains, the black candles in the candelabra, the little skull-headed pins that held the table drapery in place. It was all in a day's work for the Valentinos, after all.

Tambry's parents—well, they looked as if they were playing poker and didn't want their expressions to give away the fact that they held losing cards. However, they had raised Tambry, who had gone punk at the age of thirteen and graduated to goth when she was fifteen and had never looked back—and she  _was_  in a Goth Metal band, and it  _was_  doing well, and she  _was_  heading for college and a degree in secondary education, and—sigh—they  _were_  stuck with Robbie as a son-in-law, so they apparently tried to make the best of it.

The wedding rehearsal was at seven PM on Thursday. Tambry wore her usual purple and lavender—not a wedding dress, bad luck to let the groom see her before the ceremony in her wedding dress (a sort of Victorian mourning dress, lots of lace and bows. Black, of course). She'd also touched up the pink highlights in her hair and had applied deep purple mascara.

Robbie wore his most current hoodie, with the broken heart stitched up with the letters T-A-M-B-R-Y repeated. He'd also had a recent haircut, which made his nose look somehow even longer, and he maintained the approved Robbie oh-let's-get-this-over-with bored attitude that had taken him far as the lead guitarist and chief songwriter for The Tombstones.

Before the rehearsal began, Mabel, in a rehearsal bridesmaid's dress (really the one she'd worn to her grunkles' wedding), flitted through the Mystery Shack parlor—the same location where Stan and Ford's double wedding had been held—adjusting, tweaking, and adding some discreet silver glitter here and there. She was one of Tambry's bridesmaids, with Wendy as Maid of Honor. After some serious discussions that had left both boys with black eyes, Nate and Lee were co-best men. Flesh-tinted makeup couldn't quite cover the damage, but, hey, it was a goth wedding, right? Tambry cheerfully told them they could borrow some of Robbie's masca—uh, eye-paint for men.

Robbie's folks being Presbyterian and Tambry's Catholic, the question of the officiant had come up early. In the end, Father Perez and Dr. Gaspell (who had conducted the elder Pines twins' weddings) agreed on a compromise, though Father Perez would limit himself to prayers and not administer the actual vows.

Tambry and Robbie had received a special dispensation from the Church for this, and Robbie had agreed that their children could be baptized as Catholics. Well, he'd said, "Sure, whatever," but Father Perez tended to take a lenient view.

The DiCiccos' regret was that an interfaith marriage couldn't take place inside a Catholic church—but everyone knew the Mystery Shack, everyone liked the Pines family (though a few still nursed reservations about Stanley), and with Father Perez's counsel and advice, they had come around and had accepted the venue and the arrangement. As Tambry's father said, "I'd rather have it there and have the Church recognize the marriage than have the kids keep doing what they've  _been_  doing over the last year!"

Since Soos and his family were congregants, they happily agreed to let Father Perez do a preliminary blessing of the premises, which he did. An ancient Japanese ghost who had long hung around the gift shop went out and haunted the totem pole until that had been performed. Then he'd returned to the  _kaiken_  he haunted, looking around and muttering, "No difference!" But then in life, he had been a man of deep spirituality.

Seated in the bride's section, Dipper watched the rehearsal and felt cheered to learn that Robbie and Tambry had decided against writing their own vows. At one point, Robbie had been in favor of musical vows, with him shredding away on electric guitar and Tambry rocking the keyboard, but what with getting ready for graduation and being excited over the band's having a golden chance to cut an album, he had run out of time to compose anything. Since Robbie's lyrics tended to range from the sarcastic to the hostile, Dipper thought it was all for the best.

He watched the rehearsal with a sense of déjà vu. At least he wasn't part of the wedding party this time—no role to play, no words to remember—and he could relax and watch. As they were sitting together waiting for the rehearsal to start, Wendy had already warned him, "In my dress, I'm gonna look like a pale-barked black Christmas tree, dude!" but he had reassured her that she looked great in anything.

"Like a bikini?" she had teased.

" _Especially_  in a bikini," he'd answered with a grin.

She giggled. "Man, you're comin' along. Year ago, that would've made you stammer and stutter!"

"Well—when you show up in the red bikini again, I probably still will!" he told her.

The proceedings went well. Afterward, everyone adjourned to the rehearsal dinner, which the DiCiccos hosted at Le Club. Since he wasn't part of the party, Dipper joined Teek for a cheaper dinner at Yumberjack's. Teek was wearing the hoodie he'd inherited from Robbie—Robbie's very first broken-heart number, which he'd first worn back in seventh grade. Robbie had passed that along as thanks for Teek's having pitched the Tombstones to the music producer who had signed them to do the album.

"You OK?" Teek asked him as they waited for their food.

Dipper shrugged. "Yeah, fine. That hoodie brings back some sour memories, though, man." He told Teek about the time he'd brought Rumble McSkirmish to life and how—to save Robbie, who'd threatened to beat him up—he'd had to endure a pounding from Rumble instead, which was very likely twice as painful as a Robbie mauling would have been.

"Why were you fighting Robbie?" Teek asked. He'd considerately taken off the hoodie and had folded it across his lap.

Dipper shrugged. "Aw, I had a crush on Wendy, but she didn't know, Robbie found out, he was gonna rat me out to her, I kinda accidentally broke his phone—it's embarrassing to talk about now."

They ate their dinners—pot roast, potatoes, salads, pie—and Teek said, "Mabel tells me you're a little bit uneasy about her and me. Dipper, you don't have to be."

"Yeah," Dipper said, not meeting the taller boy's gaze, "I know it. It's just that—well, you know Mabel. It's all or nothing with her. She's had some pretty awful crushes in the past. Including Mermando, the guy we're trying to help with this whole manatee kidnap thing. And there was this horrible guy at school when we were freshmen who treated her like crap—anyway, I've seen her get hurt a bunch of times. Guess I'm over-protective."

Teek nodded. "I've seen that, too. Like with Russ last year."

"Yeah. That was really rough on her." He gave Teek a crooked grin. "For what it's worth, I didn't trust Russ, either, man! And after he died trying to protect my sister—well, I've kinda beat up on myself for running him down to Mabel when I thought there was something between them."

"Yeah," Teek said. "I guess you and Mabel have always been so close you never want to see her messed up over a guy."

Dipper agreed with a nod. "That's true. But—well, Wendy says I have to let Mabel make her own decisions, and she's right. I do trust you, Teek. That's hard for me to say, 'cause there's very few people I trust, but it's true. But—OK, I'm kinda paranoid sometimes?"

Teek smiled. "Yeah, I get that. But I don't blame you. Mabel's—well, Mabel! I've always been kind of a nerd. Bookish. Not in any cliques. Too shy to talk to girls. Mabel's like a breath of fresh air."

"Heck," Dipper said. "Mabel's like a gosh-durned hurricane!" His imitation of Fiddleford was pretty good.

"I can't disagree with that!" Teek said, laughing. "I'd never met anybody as accepting as her before. And she made me laugh, and she enjoyed it when I did, and then when Russ died and I saw her so—so broken-hearted—I just wanted to comfort her, you know? Anyway, that's how it started. It's turned into something else."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Dipper said.

For a second it looked as if Teek were struggling to make up his mind. Then, though softly, he blurted, "OK, honestly, Mabel and I aren't doing anything, you know,  _drastic._  In the romance way, I mean. She gets these wild hairs sometimes, and once or twice I've had to put on the brakes, because if she really got me started—"

"I know, I know," Dipper said. "Same with me and Wendy. We swore a pact that we wouldn't get, you know, totally physical until I'm eighteen. But we, well, hug and kiss and all and sometimes one or the other of us has to say 'Let's pull back now.' So far, we have, and I think we'll make it to our deadline. Wendy and I are seriously talking getting married after I'm out of high school, like Tambry and Robbie. Except I think my mom might have a hemorrhage if we told her right now."

" _Catcher in the Rye!_ " Teek said, looking surprised. "You've read that book!"

Dipper blinked. "Yeah, why—oh, 'hemorrhage.' I guess I did pick that up there."

"What did you think of Holden?"

Dipper shrugged. "Closet geek being faux-cool and trying way too hard."

"Me, too!" Teek said. "He overcompensated so much, he was kind of a jerk! People have called me a geek, but I consider myself more of a dork!"

With a grin, Dipper raised his plastic cup of Pitt Cola. "To dorks!"

Teek made a pretense of clinking. "To dorks!"

"Which means," Dipper said, raising his cup again, "to us."

"Yeah," Teek said. "To us, man."

"You can put on that stupid hoodie," Dipper told him. "It doesn't really bother me any longer."

* * *

The actual ceremony took place Friday night, and it was interesting. Dipper, seated on the aisle, bride's side, didn't think Wendy looked strange at all—she wore a minimum of make-up, and her hair had been done in braids, but the black ruffled dress she wore had a low neckline, and Dipper resolutely didn't stare at her cleavage. Well—not too much, anyway.

All the bridesmaids wore black, Mabel's a chiffon number that fell gracefully to her ankles and bared her right shoulder. It swayed when she walked The only touches of color among the ladies were the bouquets—blood-red roses, with a few sprays of white baby's-breath. As for Tambry, she looked really good, confident and poised, her strapless wedding dress, all lace and ruffles, revealing her shoulder tats—discreet, tiny ones, a small sun on the left shoulder and a small moon on the right.

Robbie, in a black tux (naturally) and a black lace-ruffled shirt, wore a white satin bow tie and a white cummerbund. Like the girls, he had one splash of color: a red rosebud boutonnière. Nate and Lee, with gobs of black face-paint for men making them look something like tall, skinny pandas, were similarly dressed, but with black ties and white shirts.

The service didn't take long—half an hour or so—but touched all the bases, Dipper thought. Tambry's mom, Melody, and Abuelita wept, Mr. and Mrs. Valentino beamed and smiled, and nobody said or did anything too outrageous. He was mildly surprised to hear Robbie say, "I, Robert Stacey Valentino III, take thee, Tambry Ava DiCicco. . .." Dipper hadn't known their full names before that moment. And he could understand why Robbie preferred the nickname. Robert Stacey Valentino III and the Tombstones just didn't have the same bleak, Gothic ring to it.

Outside the hall, a limo waited to take Tambry and Robbie to Portland. There they'd board a plane for Los Angeles and their weekend honeymoon (the rest of the band would meet them in L.A. on Monday, when they'd start work on their recording), Tambry took off her garter to chants of "Go! Go! Go!" from the band members, Nate, and Lee, and she flipped it over her shoulder.

Father Perez caught it, which he seemed to find somewhat embarrassing.

Then she tossed her bouquet, and Dipper suspected collusion when Wendy stretched way up, made a leap, and fielded it. "Woo-hoo!" she yelled, and the chant changed to "Wen-dy! Wen-dy! Wen-dy!"

As she turned, displaying her catch, she raised her eyebrows and gave Dipper a surreptitious zip-my-lip gesture. He felt his heart melt.

Teek and Mabel came up, arm in arm. "Whoosh!" Mabel said. " _That's_ over!"

"A triumph of your wedding-planner art," Teek said, grinning.

She playfully shoved him. "Yeah, yeah. I'm gonna run and get out of this dress, and you can take me somewhere nice to eat."

"I can't afford Le Club," he warned her.

"Meh, anywhere that's a step above Los Hermanos Brothers!"

"Mabel," Dipper said solemnly, "Once you take off your dress—you  _are_ going to put something else on, aren't you?"

She blew a raspberry instead of replying and, grinning, bopped off toward her room. Wendy came over and linked her arm through Dipper's. "Guess we're committed," she said, waggling the bridal bouquet. "Wedding flowers don't lie, man!"

"Couldn't be happier," he told her. "You want to change out of that dress?"

"Sure," she said. "Didn't bring my bikini, though."

That made him laugh. "Better wear something you can go to a respectable restaurant in. I think we're double-dating with Teek and Mabel."

Teek looked surprised, but then he said, "That would be good."

"Cool!" Wendy said. "Hey, I know this nice place over in Morris. Not too expensive, and they stay open until two A.M. There's even a dance floor!"

"Yeah!" Teek said with more enthusiasm. "Let's do that."

As the girls were changing, Dipper confided to Teek, "Right after a wedding is sort of a dangerous time to be alone with a girl, you know. They're thinking  _honeymoon_!"

"Thanks—I guess," Teek said ruefully.

But he was smiling.

* * *

Later that night—at midnight, in fact—about twenty miles from Gravity Falls, in the town of Morris, the stranger sat at the table in his motel room and again performed the ritual. Seven, maybe eight, he had identified—there was a weird blur between two of the figures on the Zodiac, one that he had not yet figured out.

And then he lost one.

The heart had faded, as if the person it represented had died. Or had resigned the position. For days it had been absent.

He tried again.

This time, when he held the pendulum over the symbol, though—

He felt the line tug hard, harder than it had before.

The heart was back, somehow.

And . . . close.

And so was . . . Ice? And the Comet? And the fir tree?

All of them?

All so close?

He fought to slow his excited pulse. Four at once. Quite near. Could he capture them? Should he try?

Premature, he knew, but he had waited so long . . ..

No.

Bitter as it was, no.

He still was recovering from his blood sacrifice. He needed more time, weeks perhaps.

But now—now he knew he was on the right track.

Though these seemed to be in Morris.

He might be mistaken about Gravity Falls, he thought.

He could not yet strike, that he knew. He had to gather strength.

But—he could certainly visit the town. He had to do it.

And then he would see.

He leaned back in his chair, put the pendulum aside, and, turning on the desk lamp, extinguished the candle that had given him only a little light. It had an unpleasant smell as the smoke from the wick wreathed.

That was always the case with such candles.

The ones in which the wax had been mingled with human fat.


	11. The Game Is Afoot. Uh, Aflipper

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

**11: The Game Is Afoot. Uh, Aflipper.**

* * *

**(Saturday, June 13, 2015)**

**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** _Wendy woke me up for our run this morning the best way possible. I was lying there hugging my pillow and dreaming of kissing her and I woke up to find out I WAS kissing her. Well, vice-versa. She was already in T-shirt, sweatband, and running shorts, and she pulled away grinning. "Two minutes to dress out, dork! You overslept!"_

_I said something that sounded like "Wstfgl," and then reached for her, but she pulled back. "Uh-uh, dude! You haven't earned it! Up and at 'em!"_

_So, I dragged out of bed, blearily remembering that the night before we had pulled in at two A.M. after eating at the restaurant over in Morris—Starlite Bay, though there isn't a bay within, like, two hundred miles. I grabbed my shorts, socks running shoes, and T-shirt and changed in the bathroom. When I came out, Wendy was sitting on my bed. She tossed me a sweatband. "Made it with two seconds to spare. Let's go! We gotta hustle!"_

_I hadn't bothered to shower—no need before running—but usually I shave now first thing. I hadn't. When we got into the sun, before putting us into our stretching-out routine, Wendy cocked her head and grinned at me in a funny way. "What?" I asked._

_She threw one arm over my shoulder and tickled my chin with the forefinger of her free hand. "Dude! Why have I never noticed this before?"_

_"What, that I have to shave now?" I asked. "You knew that!"_

_"No, no, this!" She poked the point of my chin._

_"What is it?" I asked._

_"You're getting a dimple, man! Your jaw's getting sort of square, and right in the middle there's the beginning of a dimple! Shows up with the bristles around it."_

_"Huh?" I hadn't noticed that myself. It embarrassed me—but then I thought of Ford, who has the same kind of dimple (more pronounced) and felt a little better._

_It was still way early, before seven. We ran to town, around the water tower, and back to the Shack in about fifty minutes, a good three miles. Then we walked to cool down, out to the bonfire glade, where we rested just a little bit. By eight-fifteen, we were walking back to the Shack._

_And there on the lawn stood Mabel, flanked by Widdles and Waddles. "Where have you BEEN?" she yelled. "Code Navy Blue! Ford will be here in a minute! Go, shower, get dressed. Pack!"_

_"Huh?" I asked for the second time in about an hour. Par for the Gravity Falls course._

_"What's up, Mabel?" Wendy asked._

_"The ship with Mermando's wife is heading north! And one of the guys on your suspect list is heading SOUTH! They must be planning to rendezvous, and we gotta cut 'em off at the pass!"_

_"Don't think that works at sea," I told her._

_Wendy and I hurried inside, I hopped in and out of the shower but still didn't shave, Wendy showered downstairs and changed into her flannel shirt and jeans—it was a work day for her—as I threw a jacket, some jeans, socks, and T-shirts into my duffel. Ford was already down in the parlor, saying, "We can't waste a moment!"_

_Soos looked around. "Oh, hey, Dipper, dawg! Yeah, Wendy, that's fine. Tad can cover again. He does, like, nothing on a Saturday. Or most other days."_

_"I'm comin' with you," Wendy told me. "Called and fixed it with Dad. Ford says he and Stan are outnumbered, and you, me, and Mabel might even the odds!"_

_"You'll need clothes—"_

_Wendy waved her work-out bag. "Always keep a change in my locker, in case of tourist-kid barfage!"_

_"Let's go!" Ford barked, and we headed out to his car, running._

* * *

"Yech," Mabel said to Dipper as they hit the highway and turned east, bound for Portland and, beyond that, Astoria and the marina at Union Town, where Stan would meet them in the  _Stan O' War II._ She scooched away from her brother, making a face _._ "Dipper! You're scruffy!"

"I didn't have time to shave!" he said.

"Leave him alone, Mabes," Wendy said, but she was grinning. "It's very manly! Good look for Dip!"

"You won't think that," Ford said abstractedly, "when he's twenty-one and has a five o'clock shadow at one PM. The Pines men have to work hard to look clean-shaven!"

Dipper and Wendy had claimed the back seat of the Lincoln, hoping for some hand-holding and silent communion, but Mabel had leaped in, too, on the passenger side, crowding Dipper into the middle seat. She said, "Well, right now, he just looks like his face is dirty!"

"I'm not dirty. I showered!" Dipper insisted.

"Check it out," Wendy told Mabel. "Dipper's getting' a dimple!"

"Where!"

"Right there!" Wendy tickled his chin again.

"Oh, yeah, I see it now! Well, that's no big deal. I've got  _two_  cute dimples!"

"You do not," Dipper said.

"Do too! Maybe I'll wear a thong bikini to the pool next time we go, and then you'll see!"

"Ew," Dipper said. "TMI!"

"Hey, I forgot!" Mabel bounced in the seat, as much as her seat-belt would allow. "Soos says you got a carton delivered by OOPS late yesterday. It's pretty big and it's from Brangwen Books in New York!"

OOPS Dipper recognized at once—the Oregon Overland Parcel Service, well-known for late and damaged deliveries and five-time winner of  _Business Month's_  Most Appropriate Acronym Award. But it took him a second to click on the name Brangwen, and Wendy got there first: "Oh, snap, Dipper! It's copies of your book!"

"Oh, yeah!" Dipper said, blinking. His first novel,  _Bride of the Zombie,_ a comic mystery for young adults, was set for publication in a few more weeks, and he was supposed to receive two dozen advance copies. "Great." But he couldn't quite manage to put the utmost enthusiasm in his voice. He had seen the dust-jacket illustration, and he hated it. The brother-and-sister twins who were the main characters were there, and the shadowy figure of the "zombie" loomed behind them, but the two twelve-year-old kids looked way too cartoony.

But, as his editors had explained, only best-selling writers ever got a chance to critique their covers before publication. Maybe next time . . ..

They had nearly reached Portland when Mabel's phone went off, playing a moldy oldie tune, Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."

"That's Teek," Wendy said.

Mabel answered the phone: "Hey, Teek! I'm on my way to rescue a manatee!"

Dipper felt her tense up beside him. She listened for a few seconds.

"No, I forgot! But this is more important. . .. No, I don't mean that! . . . No! Not at all! But we couldn't wait for you! . . . OK, OK, let's just stop now. We'll talk when I get back."

With her face red, she turned off the phone.

"Guy trouble?" Wendy asked quietly.

"Hmpf!" Mabel crossed her arms and turned to stare out the window.

Dipper took Wendy's hand and silently told her,  _—I think they just had their first fight._

_Bet I know what the trouble is, Dip. Teek and Mabel had plans for today, and she forgot about them in the excitement._

— _Should I say something?_

_No. She's processing it. Hang on._

Wendy surreptitiously took her own phone out and using her thumbs only, sent off a quick text. Less than a minute later, she thought to Dipper:  _Got an answer from Teek. I was on the money. Teek had a special date planned for after work, and he's upset that Mabel ran off with Ford and us._

— _Well, they can do it after we get back._

_Nope. Teek scored two expensive concert tickets for Downfall Boy. They're just doing one show in Eugene._

— _Mabel loves that group!_

_Yeah, and Teek's not crazy about them. This was a big deal for him._

— _I hope they can patch it up. This is a dumb thing to break up over._

_Give 'em time, Dip._

Mabel recovered her cool to some extent. By the time Ford paid the parking fee and pulled into a space at the marina, she could have fooled most people, but Dipper could read her well. She was really upset.

"There he is!" Ford said as he got bags out of the trunk.

Dipper looked toward the water. Off to the left was a motel, two stories, red-and-yellow brick, and upriver to the right a steel cantilever bridge, but dead ahead lay a forest of white sailboat masts. Stan Pines, looking odd in a blue pea jacket and a red toboggan cap—Mabel had knitted the cap—stood waving at the foot of one of the piers.

They hurried over. Stan hugged Mabel—"Hiya, Pumpkin!"—and then said, "Jeeze, I didn't think you'd ever get here! It's past noon!"

"We came as quickly as we could, Stanley," Ford said with dignity.

Stan grabbed Mabel's overnight bag and said, "This way." As he led them out onto the pier, he glanced over his shoulder. "Wendy! You decided to tag along?"

"Yeah, Stan, dude. Ford made it sound like you needed everybody you could get!"

"Well, welcome aboard—but we only got three cots on the boat, so we're gonna have to juggle sleeping arrangements!"

"Grunkle Stan," Dipper said, "how long until—"

"Can't say, Dip. Sometime tomorrow, though. And looks like there'll be two boats to deal with. There's the freighter that's got the manatee on it now, and there's the yacht comin' to meet it."

Ford began, "Was it—"

"Yeah, yeah, Voillelli," Stan said. "Your hunch was right. Here we are."

They boarded the  _Stan O' War II._ Ford told Stan, "You cast off—you filed all the—"

"We're clear to leave, Poindexter! Sheesh! You think nobody can think but you, but I think you got another think comin'!"

"Sorry, Stanley. You cast off, and I've got some calls to make while we've still got coverage."

"Can't you radio?" Stan asked.

"Not for the calls I'm making." Ford disappeared below deck, and Stan said, "Dip, you remember how to cast off?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I'll help," Wendy said. Mabel remained silent.

Stan started the engine and nestled the boat close to the old tires that served as fenders for the dock. Dipper went to cast off the fore line, Wendy to the aft one. He nodded, they took the loops off the stanchions at the same moment, and then both hustled back aboard. "Coil the lines," Stan said, and Dipper did, Wendy watching. The  _Stan O'War II_  backed, turned, and glided slowly past the sterns of other moored boats.

Mabel sat on the seat at the transom, her heels drawn up, all but in Sweater Town.

At the wheel, Stan asked, "You get seasick, Wendy?"

She shrugged. "Dunno, dude. Never tried."

"Mabel does. Dip, there's some Dramamine in the medicine locker. Get one and some water for your sister. Wendy, you start gettin' queasy, you take one, too."

Dipper went below. He overheard Ford on the phone: ". . . and we probably can't succeed without backup. Pi one. Repeat, Pi one. Thanks for that."

Staggering a little as the boat's roll increased, Dipper returned to the deck with a round orange tablet on his left palm and an eight-ounce bottle of water in his right hand. He sat beside Mabel. "Here you go, Sis."

She looked down. "They're usually yellow."

"This is the extended-release version."

She shrugged, popped the pill, and chugged some water. "Thanks."

"It's OK. Mabel, Teek will get over it."

"Yeah, right."

"Come on," he said. "He loves you."

Mabel rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "It's me. I was dumb. I should have told him this might happen."

"Look, don't beat yourself up. It doesn't help. I know."

"Yeah." She took a long, deep breath. "Well, I'll call him when we get back. Maybe we can settle this. He wasn't—you know, he wasn't real mad. Or he was, but he held it in. I could kinda tell. Thanks, Dipper."

"Hey, awkward sibling hug?"

She gave him a sad smile, and they hugged.

It was their first awkward sibling hug during which Dipper felt his sister sob.

* * *

Predictably, once they were out of the harbor and Stan opened up the engine, Mabel barfed. "It's OK," she told Wendy, who was holding back her hair. "I'll get over it in a couple of hours."

"How about you, Wendy?" Stan asked. "You holding up OK?"

"Yeah, fine," Wendy said. "This is no worse than bein' up in the top of a tall pine when there's a wind up." She shivered a little. "Cold, though!"

"Dipper, see what you can find."

Dipper took Wendy below—"Cramped, man!"—and looked in the clothes locker. "OK," he said. "Not much that'll fit you. Here's a sweater Mabel made for me. Oh, and here's a windbreaker—probably Grunkle Ford's. See how they work for you."

The sweater was a deep gray, with MT appliquéd on the chest. Wendy could wear it. The dark-blue windbreaker was wide in the shoulders and long in the sleeves, but she zipped it up and rolled up the sleeves. "This'll do," she said.

Dipper had shoved his medium jacket in his duffel—he remembered how cold it could get—and he took Mabel an extra sweater.

Ford and Stan were both on deck now, talking about the prospects. Not long afterward, the boat breasted into the Pacific swell and set a southern heading. Ford turned to Mabel and handed her a white-and-red loud hailer. "Stanley tells me you can alert the sea creatures," he said.

"I'll try."

Mabel stood, one hand on the rail, and turned on the megaphone. "Testing!" she said, and her amplified voice boomed over the waves.

She said, "Attention, all dolphins and merpeople and whatever! This is Mabel Pines, friend of Mermando, Prince of Merpeople and King of the Manatees! I'm calling on you for help! Is anybody there?"

"Oh, wow!" Wendy exclaimed as, not fifty yards from the boat, three sleek creatures with triangular fins, dark-gray backs, and nearly white faces, broke the water and leaped in a graceful arc. "Whales!"

"Dolphins," Ford quietly corrected. "Risso's dolphins. Though they are closely related to orcas, which are commonly called killer whales. They used to be called grampuses—"

Mabel drowned him out: "Attention, denizens of the deep! Let the merpeople know! Mermando said he could meet us if you can let him know our location! Follow us and spread the word! Go, my deep-sea beauties, go!"

"Whoa!" Stan yelled. "Ahead, off the port bow!"

Dipper turned just in time to see two tall plumes of spray, and then two enormously long bodies arching up—though what he could see of the creatures' sides just beneath the water appeared as a nearly fluorescent turquoise.

"Blue whales!" Ford shouted.

Wendy put her arm around Dipper. "Dude," she said, "I think the odds just evened out!"

He reached to take her hand—very cold in the ocean breeze—and thought,  _—I hope so. Except whales and dolphins—well, they don't have guns. These guys probably do._

At least one thing was a little brighter. Mabel, manically running from one side of the deck to the other, clutching the bullhorn, was bellowing encouragement to the sea creatures. For the moment, it looked as though she had forgotten her troubles with boys.

For the moment.


	12. South by Southeast

**12: South by Southeast**

**By William Easley**

* * *

 

**(Saturday-Sunday, June 13-14, 2015)**

Bent over beneath a cone-shaded lamp, Stanford worked with chart, roller ruler, three-armed protractor, and dividers to plot the course. Dipper, beside him and looking on, asked, "Wouldn't it be easier to use the computer for all this, Grunkle Stan?"

"Most navigators would," Stanford murmured, never looking up from the chart. "However, since my return from the outer dimensions, I've never picked up the computer skills necessary to perform that task. Now, here," he said, making a pencil mark, "is the last known location of the  _Triton Trident._  The bulletin is about an hour old now, and she's making between eight and nine knots, so that would put her . . . about . . . here." He made a second pencil mark.

"How far away?" Dipper asked. He braced himself with his foot, because the boat was pitching and rolling in the heavy Pacific chop.

The motion didn't seem to bother his great-uncle Stanford. "Mm, we're . . . here." The dividers did their swivel-walk over the map. "That would be about, let's see, 175 nautical miles, or a shade over two hundred miles, south-southeast of us."

He sketched in a course. "So . . . if we can maintain a speed of twelve knots, and let's say theirs is 8.5 knots . . . not quite nine hours until we should be within sighting distance of them. What time is it?"

"Um, it's . . . 1805 hours, I guess?"

"Then we should come within sight of them at three in the morning," Stanford said. "The unknown factor is Voillelli's yacht. We managed to get a head start, but it's undoubtedly put to sea by now, and it may be faster than the  _Stan O' War II._ Until my friend—"

The ship rolled to port, and Dipper gripped the edge of the table. "The Professor."

Stan shook his head ruefully. "Old habits of secrecy die hard. Yes, Professor Weaverly—please don't mention that name to anyone else, not even Wendy, because it's unbelievably classified. Yes, until the Professor can arrange to have a flyover to spot and locate the yacht, we can't be sure where it stands in this equation."

"Didn't they have to file a sailing plan or something?"

"Pleasure excursion to San Francisco," Stanford said. "That is obviously false—"

"Hey Ford!" Stan, bellowing from up on deck.

"Excuse me, Mason." Stanford stood up and made his unsteady way to the short stair—the companionway—leading up to the deck. "Yes, Stanley?"

"Gonna need to put more fuel in the port tank pretty soon."

"I'll attend to it."

Dipper hadn't been down in the fuel area of the boat, in the bilge—cramped, so low that even he would have to walk doubled at the waist—and he said, "I'll do it, Grunkle Ford."

Stanford put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from rising. "Better let me, Mason. We have extra fuel aboard, but it's a little tricky to operate the hand pump, and I know which containers need to be emptied in which order. However, it's a nasty job, so I will change clothes first."

Dipper went back on deck, hanging on to anything he could reach. Though the motion didn't make him seasick, as it did his sister, it was hard to get used to. The afternoon sun shone warm and unbroken by clouds, but the air felt as chilly as the ocean looked, deep slate-blue, streaked with white foam. "How's Mabel?" Dipper asked Stan, who stood at the wheel, looking nautical in pea jacket, gloves, and toboggan cap.

Stanley nodded. "Better. She's forward, with Wendy. Go tell 'em to grab some life vests if they're gonna horse around, OK?"

Going forward on the  _Stan O' War II_ meant either walking through the deckhouse, or walking across its flat roof, or squeezing through about fourteen inches of deck space on either side of it. With the boat still wallowing a bit in the chop, Dipper took the easiest route, going through the deckhouse—though he staggered and lurched a little—and out the forward hatch.

Wendy and Mabel stood at the curved rail in the bow. The boat was pitching as it hit the waves, the bowsprit rising up and up until it pointed at empty blue sky, and then as the boat crested the wave, swinging down until it pointed at the ocean surface. When they rode the downward slant of the wave and boomed into the trough, the bows sent a spray of white water foaming and whipping away on the wind.

"You OK?" Dipper asked, coming up to join the girls and stand between them.

"Lots better," Mabel said, her face no longer green, but still pink with the remnants of a sunburn. It had started to peel on her arms, and she enjoyed pulling long strips off. Mabel had told Dipper that her ambition was to peel her face off in one complete piece: a Mabel skin-mask. Right then, she looked as if she had bundled herself in three sweaters, plus a light jacket. "Whee!" she exclaimed as they climbed another wave. "The pill kicked in, I guess."

Since she had probably thrown up the pill in her first bout of seasickness, Dipper didn't see how that could be possible. However, the placebo effect might explain it. "You OK, Wendy?" Dipper asked.

She had bundled up, too, and she seemed to huddle herself inside the windbreaker. "Yeah, dude. Not sick at all. Cold, though! I didn't know it would be like the middle of winter out here."

"It's the ocean," Dipper said. "The water temperature's about fifty. That cools the air, and there's a lot of ocean, so it can chill a lot of air."

"Fifty's not  _that_  cold," Mabel said.

"Yes, it is," Dipper told her. "You'd get hypothermia in about an hour if you were in the water."

He told them about the prospects for their rescue voyage. "Three in the morning?" Mabel moaned. "Oh, man! Why couldn't we meet them at a decent time? Noon, maybe?"

"Because by then the manatee might be aboard Voillelli's yacht," Dipper said patiently. "It'll be lots faster than the freighter, so we wouldn't have a chance of catching it. Any word from Mermando yet?"

"Uh-uh," Mabel said. "But the dolphins are real friendly. Look!" She leaned over and yelled, "Hey, guys! This is my brother, Dipper the dork!"

"Mabel!"

But he didn't have time to complain, because a row of gray dolphins erupted, breaching, curving, and submerging again, right beside the bow. They made their squawky, excited, chattering sounds as they did.

"Whoa!" Wendy said. "Must be a hundred of them!"

"Bottlenose dolphins," Dipper told her. "I didn't think they liked cold waters."

"These are just visiting!" Mabel yelled. "I think Mermando sent them to meet us!"

One dolphin leaped high and squawked, "Urr-an-o!"

"He said 'Mermando!'" Mabel yelled. "When the time comes, these guys are gonna help form a teleportation circle and bring Mermando and his merfolk in to help us!"

"How . . . do you know that?" Dipper asked.

"Mystery Twin intuition! Yes!" Mabel did a fist-pump. "Also, Mermando wrote about it in one of his letters."

"Oh, dude, look there!" Wendy said, pointing off to the left.

Dipper said, "Whoa!" fifty yards from the boat, a pod of black-and-white bodies, much larger than the dolphins, broke and spouted. "Orcas!"

"Killer whales," Wendy said. "I know that much from TV."

"Yeah, but they're really not whales, but a super-large species of dolphin," Dipper said. "Are they along for the ride, too?"

Mabel pushed past him. "Let's see! Hey, orcas! If you're comin' to help Mermando save his wife, come closer!"

Instantly the orcas changed course, angling in to approach the boat.

"Um, close enough, Mabes!" Wendy said. "We don't want to hit 'em!"

But the orcas took care of that, straightening their course to parallel the  _Stan O' War II_ a couple of dozen feet away _._ Dipper took Wendy's hand—it was very cold—and thought to her, — _They're not dangerous to us. They're the smartest of the dolphins. They hunt in packs and have organized ways of getting food._

_Like what, Dip?_

— _Um, I saw this TV show. There were seal pups on an ice floe. The orcas couldn't reach them, though sometimes one will chase a seal up on a beach and nearly come out of the water to grab the prey. Anyhow, about a dozen orcas got in line, abreast of each other, and then swam toward the ice so fast that they pushed up a wave and washed the seals off, and then they grabbed them and—well._

_Brutal. But not any worse than a bear or a wolf, I guess._

— _Yeah, but don't tell Mabel, OK? She thinks seal pups are cute_.

The dolphins and orcas gradually fell behind. "More of 'em will show up," Mabel told them. "They take shifts, I think. I'm going downstairs to see if I can find some food. Maybe I can keep it down, and I'm all empty."

"Be careful," Dipper told her as she started to squeeze around the port side. "And get your life jacket on!"

"Yeah, yeah, I will."

Dipper watched until he was sure she had made it safely aft.

"Guess we should have life jackets on, too," he told Wendy.

"OK. You're the sailor."

He laughed. "I made one trip before this!"

She nudged him. "More'n me, dude! I've never even been on the Small World ride!"

"You're lucky," Dipper said. "Ready to go?"

Wendy let go of the rail. "Let's go. But I'm goin' inside to get to the back. The wind's awfully cold."

Seeing her as she turned, Dipper smiled. "First, before we leave," Dipper said, "get right in the bow. This won't take long. Hold the rail, both hands."

She laughed. "Dip, we're not seriously doing this, are we?"

"Humor me."

"OK." She did as he asked.

Standing behind her, pressed against her, he reached to hold both wrists and gently forced them up until both teens stood with arms extended, facing the sea. The boat rose and plunged. "We're flying," he whispered into her ear as her long hair swept against his cheek.

"Yeah," she murmured. "We are."

For him it felt dizzying—and enthralling. They saw the bowsprit rise, fall, and even dig its tip into the water as the boat plunged down into the trough. They saw white spray explode beneath the bow and then whip off to port. They felt the sea wind.

"It's really beautiful," Wendy whispered. "And I'd love it, except I'd be freezing my butt off if you weren't so tight against it."

He laughed. "Well—everybody's gotta do the  _Titanic_ thing at least once."

"Cross that one off our list. OK, Dipper, that was romantic. Now take me somewhere warm and thaw me out!"

* * *

And somewhere south-southeast of them, Auguste "Gunny" Inglehorn, captain of the  _Triton Trident_ , waited while the radio operator raised the  _Cutwater._ The yacht's radio man came on the line, his voice distorted and crackling—there was a lot of sunspot activity just then, and that sparked electrical disturbances in the upper atmosphere. The  _Trident's_ man gave the coded recognition signal, then Inglehorn sat next to the operator at the radio station, earphones on, and reached for the microphone. "Is he aboard?" he asked.

"Affirmative."

Inglehorn grimaced. Voillelli always hired veterans, but since the type he went for were mostly dishonorable discharges, and they always overcompensated. "Inglehorn here. Let me talk to him."

It took five minutes, Inglehorn grumbling the whole time.

Then Voillelli himself, his voice a rasp: "This better be important."

"ETA and some concerns."

"Go ahead."

"At the place you know," Inglehorn said. "Oh one thousand."

 _The place_  would be obscure enough a destination to any eavesdroppers. And Voillelli knew what anyone else would not: the appointed time, 10:00 AM, was wrong. To get the correct rendezvous time, one subtracted two hours—the two vessels should meet at eight in the morning.

"I'll be there very early," Voillelli said. "You find us. Concerns?"

Inglehorn thought carefully. They had a sort of code, but he'd never bothered to memorize it. "High traffic," he said.

Some seconds passed while Voillelli absorbed this. "Is the water smooth or choppy?"

"Choppy," Inglehorn replied. "It was that way coming out of the harbor. Three times since." It was as close as he dared come to telling Voillelli outright that three times choppers had crossed their wake or their path—very unusual. They looked like Navy helicopters, but were never quite close enough for him to be sure.

He heard Voillelli make a low growling sound. "Twelve plus," he said. "Until one thousand, twelve plus, all times. Repeat that."

"Aye," Inglehorn said. "Twelve plus, understood. Over and out."

"Twelve plus!"

Inglehorn clicked the switch and broke the connection. "That will be all," he told Meyers, the radio operator. "Back to your station."

Inglehorn went back to the bridge and called the navigator. "How far offshore are we now?" he asked.

"Twenty miles," the man told him.

"Good Are we coming inside the limit at any point on the course?"

"No. Closest would be off Cape Blanco, before we make our turn, and we'd be sixteen, eighteen miles there."

"He's worried about getting caught inside the twelve-mile limit."

The navigator shook his head. "Coast Guard won't bother us."

"Don't be too sure. They stop drug runners in the open sea," Inglehorn muttered.

"We ain't running drugs."

"Yeah," Inglehorn said. "But look at who we work for." Inglehorn called the second mate: "Where the hell are you? You should've been here five minutes ago."

"Comin'!"

After another five minutes, Pedersen, sloppy, sweaty, and reeking of body odor, lumbered onto the bridge. "Lost track of time," he muttered.

"Christ, Pederson, take a bath someday soon! Take over. I'm getting some chow. Hold present course, notify me immediately if anything out of the way happens. Especially if you see aircraft in the area."

"Like airliners?"

Inglehorn cursed. "No, dummy! Low planes! Helicopters! Like that."

"OK, Gunny."

Inglehorn bit back a vulgar response. Airliners! If you saw them out here, it was as barely-visible dots at the leading point of a contrail sketched across the sky. Airliners!

What the hell. He was quitting after this run, anyhow. He could sign on with Dolphy, a freighter company that hauled fuel, mostly on South Pacific runs. He didn't like this business of being an errand boy for a gangster who happened to own a hefty percentage of the Triton company.

And he hated the stupid reason that Voillelli had cautioned him to run outside and that they all just might, incidentally, serve time for: a damn manatee!

She was in her cramped tank on the starboard deck, next to the midships Heill crane that could handle twenty tons. The animal herself only weighed half a ton, but the tank, water, heater and all the apparatus racked up the weight. He tapped the circular dial to make sure the reading was correct: 24 Celsius, should be comfortable enough.

Inglehorn paused at the end of the tank and looked down. The top of the tank had been closed by a barred grate, so it was like looking through a ladder laid horizontally. The manatee bobbed, her gray nose above the surface. She squeaked like a damn rat when he was beside her. He could see the stupid mark on the top of her head, a warty-like pink growth that resembled a crown.

 _That_ damn manatee and no other. That was the only one Voillelli wanted. God knew why.

But, Inglehorn reminded himself, he wasn't looking at a cabbage-eating crap factory, but at a clear hundred thousand dollars for himself and another hundred thousand to divide up among the crew, cash, untraceable.

God, he'd be so glad to have the money in hand and to be shed of this mound of fat.

Inglehorn continued aft, but stopped at the rail again as he noticed a disturbance in the water on the landward side—a pod of Dall's porpoises, a big one, maybe six or seven hundred of them, leaping and pacing the ship.

"Good luck," he grumbled. That's what the sailors said—porpoises alongside a vessel meant good luck. He'd been at sea too long to believe in superstitions, though.

He carried his personal good luck in a holster strapped to his belt and his right leg: A SIG Sauer P210 9-mm pistol. Most shooters agreed it was the most accurate semi-automatic pistol on the planet, and Inglehorn was one of the most accurate shooters. And just in case that good-luck token failed him, on his left, in a scabbard, he carried a five-inch, Martinez-designed dagger.

He had experience with both. In times of danger, he relied on both.

Certainly a lot more than he would on a pod of damn porpoises.


	13. Night Chase

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**13: Night Chase**

**(June 14, 2015)**

Tony Voillelli was over fifty and looked forty. Part of it was money—you can buy hair transplants and facelifts if you have millions—and part was his clean way of living. No cigarettes, no strong liquor, no drugs—for him. What happened to others was their business, and their business often made his business richer.

He had risen in the ranks of the extended family's organization by simple expedients: Ratting out relatives and friends, secretly informing to the police, a little judicious murder here and there. Now he owned an island of disputed nationality—Canada and the U.S.A. continually went back and forth on the question, without settling it—and Voillelli lived apparently retired.

However, a master puppeteer may be beyond the view of the audience, up at the meaningful end of the strings. Voillelli had been planning something big for years. He had accidentally (he would say providentially) learned the astounding truth that mermen and mermaids were real; that they held sway over the mammals of the sea; and that the prince of the merfolk was married—by arrangement—to the queen of the manatees.

A lesser man would have doubted his sanity. Voillelli took it in stride and saw ways to profit.

No Coast Guard vessel ever stopped a pod of dolphins. No DEA team ever interrogated a manatee. As couriers of illicit materials, they would be perfect smugglers, if only a man could organize.

And he'd found the way. Hold the queen, the king would fall in line. Just like a game of chess, but with bullets.

Very soon now he would hold the queen.

His yacht, the  _Cutwater,_  looked like a rich man's toy: ninety feet long, sleek, gleaming. A perfect vessel for the rich to lounge on.

It also bristled with concealed weaponry: high-powered machine guns, rocket launchers, even a well-hidden torpedo tube. Six small but lethal torpedoes waited to be loaded.

Hermit Island, they called the disputed territory, his home. Voillelli had built his hideaway, paid taxes to Canada and to the United States, and took no side in the territorial dispute except to have his lawyers doggedly find ways of forcing continuations of it. As a result, neither country policed the water right around it, and a seagoing weapon like the  _Cutwater_  could slip in and out without attracting official attention.

"What do you mean?" Voillelli asked Fusel, the captain of the vessel. "Why would we go inland?"

"This sea," Fusel explained. He stood in the owner's suite at midnight, sweating like a pig. Not that the cabins were hot, quite the contrary—but Voillelli had a way of putting you on the hot seat, anyway. "The  _Trident_ crew can lower the tank, but we're not stable enough to take it aboard. We have to make the exchange in a harbor, or at least in the lee of some shelter."

"Such as?" Voillelli asked. His eyes were flat as a doll's eyes, not hinting at warmth.

Fusel unrolled a black-and-white chart. "My preference," he said, "would be to shift the rendezvous to the west side of Graham Island."

Voillelli stared at the place where Fusel had stabbed the paper with his index finger. "No. Puts us five hundred miles from port. There'd be questions about the _Trident_ straying so far off course."

"Then—this is a poor second choice." Fusel's fingertip sailed south and southeast, coming to rest on a spot. "Island Rock. South of Cape Blanco, west of Humbug Mountain State Park. It's small, it won't give much shelter—"

"It's right up against the mainland," Voillelli said.

"There's more than a mile of sea-room. Inglehorn knows how to be careful unloading cargo. It's enough room."

"It's within the twelve-mile limit."

"Yes. There's nowhere else, sir."

"Maybe the weather will improve."

Fusel took a deep breath. "I explained at first that this will be really tricky. With any kind of a swell, I can't guarantee success. We could lose the cargo, the vessels could collide—it's too risky."

Voillelli rolled up the chart and handed it back to Fusel. "Until I make up my mind, keep your course to to the original rendezvous. Let me think about what to do."

Fusel took the chart. "Yes, sir." Voillelli hated the "aye" word.

"Don't slip up. I want to meet them, not miss them."

"Understood."

Fusel left the suite, leaned against a bulkhead, and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He'd spent nineteen years in the Navy before getting caught as part of a conspiracy to—well, never mind. Lost his rating, got a DD, had to look for any work. He'd never risen to officer status, but he'd served a boatswain's mate, a petty officer grade E-6, pretty cushy salary. Lost his pension with the dishonorable discharge.

So . . . Voillelli found him boat-bumming in the Keys, offered him a spot, and for the past three years he'd had command of the  _Cutwater._  His position was in many ways clandestine—his name really wasn't Fusel, that was a manufactured identity to keep the Coast Guard off his tail. The D.D. should have disqualified him from civilian command.

But he couldn't complain, not much. Life was smooth. Voillelli only occasionally took the yacht out. Most of the time, Fusel only had to superintend maintenance and keep the vessel in readiness. And most of the cruises were brief, taking some shady passengers out into the ocean for business conferences without risking anyone's eavesdropping. Sometimes the yacht took the occasional pleading passenger out for a trip to deep water.

A one-way trip.

But now Fusel worried. This—this crazy thing with the manatee—Fusel muttered, "I'll quit," and then pushed off the bulkhead, on his way to the bridge, knowing inside that you didn't quit Tony Voillelli. No one ever did. No one left his organization.

Unless it was feet first.

* * *

"Kids all asleep?" Stan asked as he came out of the deckhouse.

Ford, at the wheel, said quietly, "Yes. Wendy's in our bunk. Mabel and Mason are in the forward berths."

"Gettin' a bad feeling about this one, Sixer," Stan said quietly, coming around to stand beside his twin. "This guy of yours goin' to be able to send the cavalry to the rescue?"

"I hope so," Ford said. "I've transmitted the coordinates of our projected intercept."

"Three hours. Anything on the scope?"

"Radar shows only a few blips, none that could be the freighter. Some small craft toward the shore, ten miles off."

"Anything behind us?"

"Not yet," Ford said. "But I'm keeping an eye out."

"Where are we?"

Ford gave him latitude and longitude.

Patiently, Stan repeated, "Where are we?"

"Roughly about eighteen miles west of the California-Oregon border. A little north of that, actually."

"So, that would put us how far from this freighter?"

"Say sixty miles. Close enough."

"Hah! Poindexter, I never expected you to say somethin' so . . . approximate."

"Well," Ford said slowly, "I'm assuming that their course and speed remained constant during the night. If anything has changed, the calculation is obviously incorrect. However, if you took the  _Triton Trident_  as the center of a circle with a radius of ten miles—"

"Hang on, hang on, ya lost me. Why that?"

"Do you want the formula?" Ford asked.

"No, I want the reason."

Ford thought for a few seconds. "Let me put it simply. Our radar can 'see' for about twenty nautical miles, all right? A freighter is a big target. We could certainly detect it on the scope at twenty miles."

"Could we see it? With our eyes, I mean?"

Ford replied, "Um—barely, as a little dim nick on the horizon. If it were day. Radar's better. Anyway, if the  _Trident_ can be thought of as the center of a twenty-mile-diameter circle, we certainly can detect it when we come to within ten miles of the circumference. Understand?"

Stan stared at his brother, his face ghostly in the glow of the radar screen next to the wheel. "I'll take your word for it."

"You'd better try to get some sleep yourself," Ford said. It's just past midnight. I'll wake you in two and a half hours."

"Yeah, you better," Stanley said. "Look, assuming we can find this freighter, we can't attack it in the dark, ya know."

"No, but we can shadow it and I can call in help when dawn breaks."

"Couldn't the fish do that? The whales and the—I know they're not  _really_  fish, Ford! Don't look at me like I'm some kinda dummy! Couldn't the dolphins and porpoises do the shadowing?"

"They could," Stanford pointed out, "but they couldn't call in help. They don't have radio."

Not much happened while Stan grabbed a little sleep. The chop eased a little, the sky grew overcast, the wind dropped to a near-calm with fitful gusts now and then, but otherwise, Stanford steered on through an inky darkness, heading for that twenty-mile-diameter circle. He lashed the wheel briefly, woke Stanley, who had lain down in the main cabin on blankets piled on the deck. "It should be soon now," he said.

Stanley came on deck right behind him, and behind Stanley, Wendy came out, still bundled up, still wearing a lifejacket. "We there yet?" she asked.

"Almost," Stanford said.

"Whoa! Dudes, what's that over there?" she asked. "Off to the right?"

Stanford barely glanced that way. "It's a cruise ship," he said. "An Alaska cruise. It's headed up to Seattle, and then it coasts up past Canada and around the shore of Alaska. I've had it on the radar for a while."

"That's one ship?" Wendy asked. "Man, I thought it was a city or some deal. Now I can tell it's moving, though. How far away is it?"

"About four miles," Stanford said, consulting the radar.

"Cool," Wendy murmured.

After a few minutes, she volunteered to go into the galley and make a pot of coffee. "Java would be great!" Stanley told her. When she had gone, he confided to Stanford, "Dipper will be a fool if he lets her get away."

"I concur," Stanford agreed. "Wendy is a remarkable young woman."

Wendy came up, expertly carrying three mugs without spilling a drop. "Dr. P., two sugars, splash of cream. Stan, black and plain. And the one with just a tablespoon of cream is mine."

"This hits the spot," Stanley said. "Wendy, get some gloves on."

"Don't have any."

"Eh, look in the cubby next to the john. Little half-closet. It's got fishin' gear in it, there's a couple pairs of cotton gloves, five fingers each glove. Ford here hasta have special ones made for him."

"I'm wearing a pair," Ford pointed out.

"Yeah, and I got a pair in my pocket, my hands get cold enough," Stanley said. "Fishin' gloves ain't much, but they'll help some."

Wendy found the cubby, figured out how to unlatch it, and found the gloves, amid a jumble of fishing line on spools, plastic boxes of hooks and sinkers, and other gear. Including a strange-looking gun—a flare gun, she realized when she inspected it. In case of emergency. The gloves were stretchy, but even so, large on her hands.

She came back on deck to hear Ford saying, "The freighter must have changed course." He tapped the radar screen. "I'm guessing, but I'd say that's her—the strong return there. If it is, it's heading north-northwest, and it already passed us."

"What's the trouble?" Wendy asked.

"Aw, the ship with the manatee slipped east and now we gotta pull a U-turn," Stanley said.

"If that is the  _Trident_ ," Ford added. "Let's see—we're a little south of due west from Klamath. They're closer inshore and up around Crescent City. We have to check it out—but a stern chase is a long chase."

"And a bird in the hand'll poop all over you," Stanley said. "What? What's that even mean?"

"It means," Stanford said, "that now the  _Trident's_  sailing away from us at maybe ten knots. We can do better than that, but not much—twelve without risking running completely out of fuel. So, each hour we'll only gain two nautical miles on her. Right now, she's roughly fourteen miles ahead of us. Seven more hours to catch her, and we'll be running on fumes, even with the extra gas we stowed."

"Could we—" Wendy began, and then she cocked her head. "What was that? A bird?"

"You hear something?" Stan asked.

"Shh."

They stood in the dark, the only light coming from the radar screen. Then it came again, from out to sea, faint but plain: "Mabel!"

"Oh my gosh, it must be Mermando!" Wendy said. "I'll get Mabes!"

She ran below, and Stan said, "It kinda does sound like someone hollerin' for Mabel. Throttle back, Ford."

"If I do, we may lose—"

"Trust me on this one, Brainiac. Throttle back. It's Mabel we're talking about."

Hesitating only a moment, Stanford slowed their progress to a crawl.

* * *

From Captain Inglehorn on down, nobody aboard the  _Trident_  liked the orders that had come in by radio: They were to head for a small offshore island, barren and unpopulated, and wait there to rendezvous with Voillelli's boat in the early morning.

That meant they'd be inside the twelve-mile limit.

That meant they were potential Coast Guard prey.

That meant that every hand aboard, from cabin boy to captain, grew increasingly jumpy.

And that meant they misinterpreted the visitor from the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, the helicopter was not black, but a becoming shade of extremely dark green, with a fashionable matte finish. Pilot Leon Jefferson had worked with the Agency for five years and a bit, long enough for him to learn to do what he was told and never speak about it. He took the coordinates, checked his location, and said, "ETA 0311" before banking the machine to the left and heading out over the dark sea.

From time to time people have seen such helicopters flying over, often when unusual occurrences have been reported in the area—animal mutilations, bigfoot, UFOs, even ghosts—and almost always witnesses have reported the aircraft as being black, suspicious, possibly involved in the paranormal activity, and lacking ID numbers and any insignia.

The witnesses are wrong on every single count. As mentioned, the choppers are painted a deep, dark, nonreflective green, which admittedly does look black, or at least black-ish, at any distance. Then, too, the helicopters are carrying out important surveillance and research work for an Agency committed to protecting the happy, unaware population from threats of demonic intrusions on our reality, an invasion of paranormal creatures, rains of frogs, mass hysteria, panic in the streets, or Mrs. Cake.

Don't ask about Mrs. Cake. There is no Mrs. Cake.

Finally, while it is true that the helicopters are not marked in any bright colors, or even in a contrasting white, there  _is_  one decal on the fuselage of each and every one, on the pilot's boarding door. In letters that are red and about a quarter of an inch long, it reminds the pilot "YOU BREAK IT, YOU PAY FOR IT." It is a motivational message.

However, assuming you are not a member of the Agency, your odds of ever seeing such a helicopter are vanishingly low. That's fortunate, because sometimes strange things happen to those who report "black" helicopters, so don't fuss yourself. You'll never see one.

In fact, there are no black helicopters. They don't exist. And don't ask about the dog park. Or Mrs. Cake. None of these exist.

Except the chopper presently vectoring in on the  _Triton Trident,_  a vessel apparently off its charted course and barely out of American waters. Jefferson, a seasoned pilot, doesn't fool around and within a few minutes he reports, "I have the target visually located. Repeat, I have the target in sight."

"Paint it," comes the response. In the jargon of the Agency, this does not mean "Oh, good, run along to the hardware store and buy, oh, thirty thousand gallons of Marsala (a reddish-brown, the official color of the year for 2015, as named by whoever the hell names colors of the year, don't look at me!) and a couple of paintbrushes and get to work."

No, "Paint it" means "Photograph it in infra-red, HD radar, and that secret electromagnetic spectrum that, as you know, does not exist."

The chopper had been tricked out. It made far less noise than the average helicopter, it was almost but not quite invisible to radar but did send back a return that looked so much like a flock of migrating waterfowl on a radar screen that it practically quacked, and, running without lights, it was not readily visible on a dark night.

Still, as Jefferson made the photographic run, the lights—even the running lights—on the vessel below went out, nearly simultaneously, because the captain and crew were keyed up and jumpy and noticed more than they ordinarily might have. Grunting in annoyance, the pilot flipped down his visor and switched to IR, and there the ship was, plain as day, if the sun were a weird shade of fluorescent green.

At 300 feet altitude, he overflew the vessel stern to stem, circled, dropped almost to wave-height, and took a second run back, getting the profile. He transmitted all this, pulled back on the stick, and got the hell out of there.

* * *

"What!" Voillelli yelled, thumbing the button of the intercom next to his bed.

"Sir," the officer of the deck's voice said, "we received an emergency report from Inglehorn on the  _Trident._ A Coast Guard helicopter just buzzed them."

Voillelli cursed. "Where are they?"

The OOD read back longitude and latitude. "I asked you, where the hell are they!" Voillelli yelled.

"Uh—just a second—fifteen miles off the coast of southern Oregon, making a north-northeasterly course for—"

"Tell 'em to put to sea again. How quick can we get to them?"

"At full speed, on a closing course—uh, by 0420." A pause, and then, apologetically the man added, "That's, uh, twenty after four AM."

"Lay in the course. Get started. And—"

Voillelli paused, cursing mentally. Damn it. But he couldn't risk the freighter's being caught with evidence. Or caught at all.

"—and ready all weapons."

He threw back the covers and, still cursing, got up and began to dress.

* * *

"Mermando!" Mabel called through the bullhorn. "I'm right here!"

Wendy, hugging herself in the cold morning gusts, said to Dipper, "A real merman, dude?"

"Yeah," Dipper said. "You saw him, that summer when you were the lifeguard at the municipal pool. Remember the long-haired guy with the sorta mustache who never came out of the water? Brown hair, missing a front tooth?"

"Oh, yeah," Wendy said. "That guy. I  _thought_  there was something strange about him. I mean, none of the other swimmers ever took an acoustic guitar in with them."

From right under the bow, very near Mabel, a male voice said, " _Querida!_  How are you, dear Mabel?"

"Mermando!" Mabel dropped to her knees and reached under the rail. A hand grasped hers. "Good to see you again. You're looking grown-up!"

"Yes. Mermen become adults at the age of thirteen years, one month, and eleven days. It is complicated. The ship with my wife is not far now."

"Uh—there's kinda a problem," Stan said from behind Dipper.

A splash echoed. "Grunkle Stan!" Mabel yelled. "You scared Mermando! His kind must not be seen!"

Ignoring her, Stan called, "Hey, Mermando! I see stranger things than you every day!"

"You do  _not_!" Mabel said hotly.

Gruffly, Stan shot back: "Oh yeah? I watch Soos eat! Mermando! Heads up. We're gonna help you if we can, but we're runnin' low on fuel. We can't catch the ship that has your old lady on it."

"What?" Mermando surfaced and even grasped the rail and pulled himself up out of the water far enough so that, in the dim green glow from the starboard-bow running lights, they could see him. His mustache had improved to a pencil-line, like Clark Gable in the old movies. "Then all is lost?"

"Maybe not," Dipper said.

Mermando shaded his eyes, as if the faint light blinded him. "Is that your brother, who kissed me?" he asked Mabel.

"It was  _not_  a  _kiss_!" Dipper insisted. "It was resuscitation!" He had never lost the impression that Mermando, though his feelings for Mabel might be strong, was bad for her. "I was just doing my job, man!"

"Whatever," Mabel said. "What's your idea, Dipper?"

He quickly told them, Mermando said, "Yes! It can be done! You prepare, and I will talk to them!"

It took only a few minutes. Then Stanford cut the engines entirely and the  _Stan O' War II_ leaped forward in the water. "We won't have lights for very long. In fact, I ought to cut everything but the radar," Ford said to the gang as they helped haul Mermando into the boat and into the folding bathtub full of water they had prepared on the deck.

He sat up in the tub, occasionally ducking down to wet his gills. "Is no matter. My friends know where the ship with my poor wife is. They will take us there with the speed of a sailfish!" He held Mabel's hand. In his romantic, Spanish-accented voice, he said, "Hello again, my first love. Thank you for doing this."

"Yeah, we're just the audience," Stanley complained.

"Shut up, Stan!" Wendy said, surprising Dipper. "This is, like, a tender moment!"

"Sheesh! I give, I give!"

Mermando said, "If I may interrupt—hang on, everyone!"

And three humpback whales, each one hauling on a tether attached to the boat's bow, broke into full speed. The crew of the  _Stan O' War II_ staggered back as water sloshed from Mermando's improvised tank and the deck tilted—Dipper grabbed Wendy to keep her from falling and by accident took hold of, well, some place soft, and she stage-whispered "Not in public, Dip!" and his face almost red-lit the night.

The Pines family boat sped over the water, leaving a phosphorescent wake. The whales changed course. On the black face of the night water, two imaginary lines, one the course of the  _Trident_ , one of the  _Stan O' War II_ , began to converge.

No one on either vessel yet suspected that a third line was angling in from the north, fast and deadly.


	14. Dark Rendezvous

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

**14: Dark Rendezvous**

**(June 14, 2015)**

* * *

When the humpbacks tired, half a dozen orcas quickly took their place and the boat sped up even more—over twenty knots, Stanford estimated. Within half an hour, he noticed something on the scope and called everyone over. "We're closing fast," he said. "The  _Trident_  has almost reversed her course. She should be in sight within minutes, off the starboard bow."

Mermando whistled and clicked, and splashes broke out all around the  _Stan O' War II_. "I have told them," he said from his tub—they had to keep replacing the water because the boat was tossing it out every time it hit a wave—"to scout the approaching ship. The whales say it is coming very fast. Are you sure that is where my queen is?"

"Unless they've already made the exchange," Stanford said. "Are there any other vessels in the area?"

More cetacean language, and then Mermando said, "No, that ship has not come close to land or to another boat."

"Then she should be aboard."

"My friends," Mermando said, "I thank you for your help. We have never interacted with humans before—the merfolk, I mean—and my hearts are very full. I have seventeen, you know."

"Fascinating," Stanford said. "When this is all over, I'd love to interview you for science."

"Alas, the world must not know of our existence," Mermando said.

"Aw," Mabel pouted. "My Grunkle could make you a star."

Not missing a beat, Mermando continued, "On the other hand, if it is for science—if you visit me in the Florida Keys, Doctor Pines, I will be honored to grant your request."

Kneeling beside his tub and grasping the rail with her left hand, Mabel reached out to hold hands with the manatee king. "I hope you're happy with your wife," she said.

"Some things," Mermando said, "are more important to a ruler than personal happiness. The welfare of his people. The maintaining of peace. The rule of law and order. But, however, Sirenia is a very affectionate wife, and yes, I am happy. Mabel, I hope I did not break your hearts—heart—too badly."

"I'm getting over it," Mabel reassured him.

In the dark Dipper heard a smooch.  _Yech. His mouth tastes like anchovies!_ he remembered from his resuscitation effort. Diplomatically, he kept quiet.

"Is that a ship?" Stan rumbled.

Dipper strained his eyes. "I don't see anything."

Wendy had dived into the deckhouse. "Here ya go, Stan," she said. "Binoculars."

"Thanks, Wendy." Beside Dipper, Stan raised the instrument and started to improvise one of his busy songs: "Do da dee do, lookin' at nothin', everything's dark . . .. Huh. Yeah. Poindexter, I think it's the freighter, but it's runnin' without lights."

"So are we," Dipper pointed out.

"Yeah, but in our case, it's 'cause we're runnin' on whale power. They're hidin' from something."

"I've got them on radar," Ford said. He hesitated and then added, "I must use the radio to call for backup. It's a restricted channel, but if they're monitoring—"

"Take the chance," Stanley advised. "We got a magnet gun and a .22 rifle. No tellin' what kinda arsenal they might be packin'."

"Hold this course," Ford said. "I'll be back as soon as possible." He ducked into the deckhouse. Stan took the wheel and handed the binoculars to Dipper. "Try to keep an eye on it. It's hard to find. Scan the horizon just right of the pointy part of the boat."

Dipper passed them to Wendy. "You're probably better at this," he said.

She took them. "I'm seein' nothin', dudes." Dipper felt her swivel as she tracked slowly back and forth. "Hang on, I think I got something. Yeah, it's, like, a little bit blacker than the ocean and sky."

"Listen!" Mabel yelled. "I think I can hear it!"

Everyone held their breath, and Mermando held his water. Against the swash of the waves slapping the bow and the puffs of the orcas as they spouted and breathed, Dipper heard a low, barely audible thrumming. "It's an engine," he confirmed.

"We're gettin' close," Stan muttered. "They gotta have us on radar by now."

Ford came back and took the wheel. "The Agency is sending a helicopter," he said. "It's coming from Coos Bay, so once they're in the air, they can get here within half an hour or so."

"Something's happening," Stan said.

Squawks and chatter came from the mammals around the boat.

Mermando said, "My friends tell me the big ship is slowing almost to a stop!"

"I see some lights," Stan said. "Maybe they spotted us."

A red streak etched itself up toward the cloudy sky.

"Fireworks!" Mabel yelled.

"Shh! That's a flare," Ford said. "But surely not so they can signal us!"

"My friends!" Mermando called. "The whales say there is another ship, past that one, coming on fast!"

* * *

Fusel said, "I tell you, without shelter, we can't risk trying to load the tank."

Beside him on the bridge, Voillelli sourly said, "Don't worry about it. Arm the torpedoes."

The captain shot him a shocked glance. "Why?"

"Do it," Voillelli said. He grunted. "I'm losing my hold over the merman, but I'm saving myself two hundred grand."

"I won't do it," Fusel said, his voice flat.

Without changing expression, Voillelli said, "You're fired. Grandham, you're captain. Morklin, take Fusel into custody. Cuff him."

The muscular Vaughan Morklin, who rarely said anything, reached for Fusel's arm, pinning it before he could move to defend himself. Voillelli watched as the big man spun the former captain, shoved him against the bulkhead, wrenched his arms behind him, and snapped the handcuffs on. Then Voillelli said, "Take him to his bunk." Morklin again pushed the shackled man, and he stumbled over the steel deck rim and fell face-first, tumbling down the steps to the deck, a drop of five feet. Voillelli grabbed Morklin's arm. "Overboard," he whispered, and the big man nodded before going down and jerking the groaning Fusel to his feet.

When they had gone, Voillelli said to Fritz Grandham, "You got a problem with arming the torpedoes?"

"No, boss," Grandham said, and he ordered it done.

* * *

"They ain't noticed us," Stan said. They  _Stan O'War II_  had been towed, silently, to within a hundred yards of the freighter, which they could now see in silhouette. Everyone aboard the ship seemed to have clustered on the far rail, the one looking northwest, out to sea. Deck lights had come on, and a searchlight fingered the sky, projecting a circle on the cloud cover. The freighter's engine hardly kept her under headway, maybe two knots if that.

"We might be able to sneak aboard," Dipper said.

"Break out the rubber raft," Stan told him. "Ford, I'm goin' in. Gunfire breaks out, you get the kids the hell outa here."

Stanford nodded grimly. The crew of the  _Stan O' War II_  could see each other in the dim spill of light from the freighter, though they looked like ghosts newly materialized from the night.

Dipper went to Mabel's side and whispered something. She sped into the deckhouse and was back in a few seconds. Dipper took something from her and reached out to touch Wendy's face with his bare hand.  _–Keep yourself and Mabel safe. I've got to go with Grunkle Stan._

_Dip, no! You're not ditchin' me!_

– _Got to. Stan will need help._

Stan came back in a wetsuit. He wore a waist pouch which bulged—Dipper suspected—with brass knuckles. Dipper had opened the locker and they inflated the yellow rubber life raft. "Mermando," Dipper said quietly, "can one of your friends get us to the side of the ship?"

"Of course,  _amigo_."

Stan opened the transom and they wrestled the raft into the water, the painter line trailing down. "You guys take care," he said, climbing in.

Dipper was in, too, before Stan could react—and Wendy came right behind him. Stan growled, "What th'—"

But a dolphin had seized the towline, and the raft sped away. "You kids can't come!" Stan whispered fiercely.

"We're here," Dipper pointed out. "Wendy, got your axe?"

"Got a hatchet I took from a locker. It'll do."

It seemed to take no time to close the gap. The raft bumped against the sheer side of the freighter, in the blackness of its shadow. "Look, I gotta find a way up—" Stan started.

"Grappling hook!" Dipper did a fair impression of Mabel.

"Shh!" Wendy said.

"What?" Stan whispered.

"Maybe nothing. I think the engines are revving, though."

Dipper raised and fired the grappling hook.

* * *

Inglehorn stared through the binoculars. "Why isn't he slowing?" he asked. "Get the  _Cutwater_  on the radio."

"Been trying," the mate told him. "They won't answer."

The yacht was only a few hundred yards away and closing fast. Inglehorn's spine crept with an intimation of danger. "Hard a-port," he said. "Give me five knots!"

The helmsman called for power and started the turn. The prow of the freighter fell away from the approaching yacht.

Their speed had not even reached three knots when the first torpedo slammed into the starboard flank.

* * *

"Hit 'em again," Voillelli said, watching the explosion.

"They're semaphoring," Grandham told him. "Identifying themselves. Asking us to cease fire."

"Hit them," Voillelli said very clearly and almost pleasantly, "again!"

* * *

"Whoa!" on the port side of the deck, Stan grabbed Wendy and steadied her as Dipper went sprawling. They heard screams and outraged bellows from the far side of a village of shipping containers. "What the heck was that?" Dipper asked, getting to his feet.

"Explosion," Stan said. Bells rang. The ship's horn shrieked.

A man's amplified voice came over the PA: "Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship!"

Stan pushed Dipper and Wendy into a tight space between two cargo containers. Dark figures ran past, and they heard the whine of winches. "They're droppin' the lifeboats," Stan said. "C'mon, while there's time!"

They ran across to the starboard side in time to see about ten men pile into a lifeboat and start to winch it down. The second torpedo hit the starboard flank, close to the stern, and the davit gave way. Over the ringing in his ears, Dipper heard the terrified screeches of the sailors as the lifeboat fell free and dangled from one rope, dumping them out. The sea cut off their screams.

"Dude, I think this thing's going down!" Wendy yelled. The deck was tilting underfoot.

"Takin' on water fast," Stan said. "Where is it, where is it—there!"

They found the crate, already rigged to the winch by a stout steel cable, its hook holding four smaller cables, one to each corner of the tank. The manatee was trying with frantic bobs of her head to butt the grating loose.

The deck tilted even more, and the container swung free by a couple of inches. Stan fumbled with the grate, found the latches, and opened them. "Grab it, Dipper! One, two, three!"

They heaved the grate over the rail. Stan was working the controls of the winch. "Don't lose power now, don't lose power now!"

The electric motor whirred, and the container, sloshing water, swung up and outward. The deck had reached a thirty-degree angle, and behind him, Dipper heard alarming scrapes, pops, and groans as the huge shipping containers threatened to break loose.

"Look!" Wendy yelled, pointing downward. "That must be the magic circle!"

Directly below them, a whirlpool of water on the face of the dark ocean glowed golden. Dipper glimpsed the shadowy forms of dolphins racing around its edge. The winch groaned, and the container descended slowly toward it—but the ship, wallowing and sinking, was still turning.

"They're moving the circle along with us!" Dipper yelled, looking down. "Five more feet, Grunkle Stan!"

"Gotta take the chance," Stan said. "We're gonna be dead if we don't!" He hit a lever, the cable zizzed through the davit, and the manatee's enclosure splashed into the center of the glowing circle. Dipper saw the mammal break free, her paddle-tail beating the golden water, and then the pool of light closed like the iris of a camera and blinked out.

Stan, fighting to keep his footing, yelled, "Now we gotta get outa here—"

Something exploded far down in the ship, the deck vibrated, and all the lights went out.

"There's our raft!" Wendy yelled. Below them, the dolphin had towed it into range, though they could barely see it in the ruddy light of flames breaking out at the stern.

"Go!" Stan yelled. He climbed up on the rail, reaching back for the kids, but lost his footing and fell. They heard him splash, shout, "Come on!" and then "No, you crazy—not yet!" His voice faded as if the dolphin were hauling him away.

"Dipper!" Wendy shouted. "I'm caught!"

One of the steel cables had broken and curled, part of it pulling taut and pinning her let against the base of the winch. Dipper grabbed it, leaned back, straining to put some slack into it, and she pulled free with a grunt. "Go, go, go!" she yelled.

As they reached the rail, all hell broke loose—a shipping container had snapped its restraints and smashed into another, which also gave way. Four of the enormous crates, each as big as a boxcar, tumbled and crashed into the steel rail, peeling it away as though it were a banana skin.

The teens avoided the avalanche of steel, but just as they tensed to jump, the third and final torpedo exploded. By then, the freighter had turned about ninety degrees to port. It listed badly to starboard, and the torpedo plowed into its exposed bottom about a third of the way up from the stern.

Dipper and Wendy felt the explosion as a giant's hand shoving them. They didn't fall straight down, but arced, tumbling. The impact of the cold water nearly stunned Dipper. His life jacket popped him to the surface, where he shouted, "Wendy!"

"Here!"

The only thing he could really see was the burning freighter, now completely on its side. Spilled diesel fuel had begun to flame on the surface. "Where are you?"

He heard splashing and struck out for it. There—he could see her orange life jacket. "We—we gotta get away—" she gasped. "Fire!"

She floundered for a minute and he reached for her. "What's wrong?"

"Kickin' off my boots! Swim, Dip!"

She outdistanced him, but he yelled, "Don't wait for me! Keep going!" He couldn't swim well—he did a kind of spastic breast-stroke—but he kept moving.  _Where are those dolphins now when we need them?_

He thought they made unusually good time—the sinking ship rapidly fell off behind them. And then he realized  _We're caught in a current!_

"What—what's that?" Wendy called, choking on water.

He caught up to her. He heard it then—a jackhammer sound. "M-machine gun!" he gasped. The water was so  _cold_.

"Sh-ship's goin'!" she chattered. "Dipper—don't leave me!"

"H-here." He pulled her over, reached for her hand—still gloved—and quickly unbuttoned her sleeve cuff. His fingers were going numb. With difficulty, he buttoned it again, threaded through the cuff of his own sleeve. "Th-this'll k-keep us t-together."

"C-can they find us?"

Dipper yanked the cord that started his life jacket beacon light flashing red and—he hoped—activated the GPS tracker. He did the same for her. "Hang on," he said. "It won't be long."

The  _Triton Trident_  reared from the water, sinking stern-first. It hung there for a moment in its pool of flaming diesel fuel, like a live thing trying not to drown, and then slipped down in an eruption of foam and a spreading lake of fire—but they were too distant now to worry about that. The ship went under, trailing streamers of steam and smoke.

Now Dipper could glimpse the yacht in the background, beyond the fire and the floating wreckage, turning away, heading off north. What had happened? Why had Voillelli's yacht fired on the cargo he must have ordered delivered to him?

Had Sirenia survived? Grunkle Stan? Where was the  _Stan O'War II_?

The cold ocean held them in its deadly grip. "Dude," Wendy said softly, "I can't f-feel my l-legs. D-don't let go, Dipper. I-I'm s-so sorry. D-don't l-let . . .."

"I've got you," Dipper said. "I've got you. It won't be long. They'll come for us."

How long they floated, he couldn't tell. He was conscious of a deep ache of regret that he hadn't kept Wendy from coming along to the ship. At one point, Wendy could only mumble meaningless sounds.

"I'll sing to you," he told her. And hoarsely, he started trying to sing the love song he had written for her: "I w-will al-always b-believe in f-fairy tales . . .." Like an old-fashioned vinyl record, he got stuck and repeated that much again and again. By the time he was trying to sing "Wendy, you're my magic girl," he could only squeak. And he was starting to feel strangely warm.

— _We're dying,_  he thought.  _But we're together._

She had slipped off her glove and held his hand. And though she was beyond speech, her faint drowsy thought came back to him:  _'S OK, dude. We're together._

And a moment, or maybe a lifetime, later, he saw the bright light.

The one that, as he understood, they needed to go into.


	15. Search

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

 

**15: Search**

**(June 14, 2015)**

"Dipper! Wendy!" Despite Ford's caution to be quiet, Mabel yelled the names as the rubber raft sped into the darkness. She stood beside Mermando's tank, and in a stunned voice she said, "Grunkle Ford, Dipper and Wendy got into the raft with Grunkle Stan!"

"What?" Ford grabbed the binoculars and raised them. "I can't see them . . . Mabel, we can't do anything about it now. Stanley will keep them safe."

Mabel sounded as if she were on the verge of hysteria: "But—you said the guys on the boat might have  _guns_! They could get  _shot_ , they could die, Grunkle Ford, they could  _die_  out there!"

"Stanley will—"

"Mabel!" Mermando said. "Help me into the water now! I must be there to open the teleportation portal. Help me, now. _Rapido_!"

Mabel gulped and in a panicky voice blurted, "I—how—Grunkle Ford, help us!"

He locked the wheel and came over to the tank. "Yes, yes—do I, uh, pick you up?"

"Yes, you could do that. I am not very heavy. Or you might just open the gate there and roll me onto the deck as the boat is heading down a wave. I will go into the water. Quickly, please!"

Ford opened and tied off the transom gate and then collapsed the side of Mermando's canvas tub. The water—and Mermando—spilled out on the deck. "Ready," Ford said. "One, two—push!"

Mermando rolled, with a flip of his tail splashed off the boat, and immediately rose to the surface. "Mabel! I will try to help as much as I can! If they can free Sirenia, I will have to teleport with her—manatees cannot do it on their own! Farewell for now! Look for a message from me!"

"Hurry, Mermando!" Mabel said. "Make sure they're all safe! Please!"

Creaking and squeaking like a dolphin, Mermando leaped free of the water for an instant, plunged down again, and vanished in the dark.

Shaking, weeping, Mabel said quietly, "If you ever loved me, please help them. Please bring them back."

Minutes crawled by as the orcas, moving slowly now, towed the  _Stan O' War II_  even closer to the  _Triton Trident._  "I'll start the engine the instant they're all back aboard," Ford said. The deck lights of the freighter shone, and a blue-white searchlight swept up and across the clouds. "Now they  _want_  to be seen," Ford muttered. "That must mean that the yacht is approaching."

Though her hands were shaking with anxiety, Mabel used the powerful binoculars to study the freighter's rail. She saw, or at least thought she saw, darting, black silhouettes against the lights—but she could make out no detail. Stan, her brother, and Wendy? Or sailors from the freighter, armed with guns, hunting down the three? She shifted her weight from foot to foot, wanting to know what was going on over there.

"Come on, come on, come on," Ford repeated, as if it were a prayer.

"What's  _taking_ them so long?" Mabel asked. "Maybe they've been cap—"

A  _boom!_ thudded across the water, and a moment later she felt the pressure wave squeeze her lungs. She screamed, "They shot them!"

"No!" Ford shouted. "Not a gun. That was a bomb! Look—fire!"

The ship's horn blasted, seven quick times and then a prolonged  _whonnnnnk!_

"Did Grunkle Stan do that?" Mabel asked. "Blow up the ship?"

"Maybe. Though the plan called for stealth. But then, Stanley is notably unpredictable."

Mabel looked through the binoculars again. Now the red glow of fire coming from the starboard stern of the freighter—the side away from them—showed her a little more detail. "They're putting a boat into the water!" she said. "It looks like—no, it's not them, it's the people from the ship. About a dozen of them, I think. Where  _are_ they?"

The lawnmower-sound of a marine outboard began, and Mabel saw the lifeboat clear the stern of the freighter and vanish behind its bulk, sketched in red by the fire that was still mostly invisible on this side of the wounded ship. "Where are they  _going_? Did they blow up the ship and leave Dipper and Stan and Wendy on it?"

"I don't see why they would," Ford said. "Maybe the Agency somehow smuggled an explosive aboard. The sailors in the lifeboat might be trying to get to the yacht."

"Listen! What's that?" Mabel asked as a chattering series of pops came over the water.

" _That'_ s gunfire," Ford said. "But it's not coming from the  _Trident_. Further away. I don't understand—"

A second fiery explosion burst out, this one right at the rear of the freighter—by then the  _Stan O' War II_  had nearly reached its turning prow—and Mabel felt a painful pressure wave in her ears. "Grunkle Stan!" she yelled into the night. "Where are you?"

Something metallic clunked on the deckhouse roof, and more falling fragments clattered on the deck. "Debris!" Ford yelled. "Wait—the orcas have let go, we're just drifting. Mabel, I'm going to start the engine. We have to fall back a little in case the whole thing blows."

"We  _can't_  leave them!" Mabel climbed up on the rail, but Ford grabbed the back of her life jacket and hauled her down.

"You can't go in the water! Listen to me! We're not leaving! But we have to get some distance in case the ship blows up!" The engine coughed and caught, and he spun the wheel. The boat turned, rocking badly as it caught the incoming waves on the beam. "We won't go far."

As he throttled back, the third and loudest explosion came. Ford stared across the water, dancing now with red reflections of fire. The freighter was three-quarters on toward them, flames shooting high, clotted smoke red in the night billowing upward, the hull listing sharply. "We're drifting back toward it," Ford said. "About three knots. Must be a strong current!" He increased throttle until the boat seemed to hold its position.

"Dolphins!" Mabel yelled. Waves of them sped from the direction of the sinking ship, back past the  _Stan O' War II_ , excitedly chattering. She leaned over, screaming,"Wait! Stop, wait! Help! Where are our friends? Stop, somebody! Why won't they  _listen_  to me?"

"Mermando's not with them now," Ford told her.

Then, from the darkness, they heard a faint, gravelly voice: "Ford! Where the hell are you?"

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel yelled. She looked around, found the bullhorn, and called, "Right here we are! Come this way! Follow my voice that I'm talking to you with through this thing!"

Ford switched on the running lights. A moment later, Stan appeared in the yellow rubber raft—which began immediately to drift away from the boat. Rocking on the waves, Stan shook his fist at the darkness. "You no-legged, air-breathing, live-young bearing, milk-producing, warm-blooded coward!" he bellowed. "Get your assless body back here! I'll tear you a new blowhole! Ford, my motor just ran off!"

Ford turned the boat again, touched the throttle, and brought the  _Stan O'War II_  alongside the drifting raft. Mabel threw a line, Stan grabbed it and pulled close, and then he clambered aboard and tumbled over the railing, shivering in his wet suit. Mabel wailed, "Where's Dipper? Where's Wendy?"

"In the water, I think," Stan said, panting for breath. "That fershlugginer ship got torpedoed! Last one blew us off the deck. That stupid porpoise caught me in the raft, but didn't wait around for Dip and Wendy! We gotta go save them!"

"Oh, my God!" Mabel said. "Look! The ship's sinking!"

They all stared. The stern of the ship went down until the bow stood up at a sharp angle, dark against the burning diesel fuel, like a knife slipping backward into the water. "Let's go, Ford!" Stan said. "We gotta save those kids!"

"Did—the manatee?" Mabel asked.

"Yeah, yeah, those dolphins and whatever made this big kinda revolvin', glowy galaxy thing in the water, and we dropped her right into the middle of it. I think that's the doohunkus that flies them back to the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe the kids landed in it, too, I didn't see."

"Then Mermando will take care of them," Mabel said. "But we can't take that chance!"

"Agreed." Ford pushed the  _Stan O' War II_  to go faster.

Stan went into the cabin, came back in his pea jacket, and broke out the searchlight and swept the beam over the water. Nothing but floating debris. Mabel, sobbing, went into the deckhouse and came back holding Wendy's trapper's hat. She fondled it as though it were a kitten. "Be all right," she begged it, or maybe the night. "Please, just be all right!"

"Holy Jamoley!" Stan yelled. "What's that?"

The yacht now was speeding away from them, maybe a mile or more distant. A shaft of brilliant white light stabbed from the heavens and locked on it.

"The helicopter!" Ford shouted. "It finally got here!"

Stan grabbed the binoculars and stared at the yacht. "Cheese and crackers, they got machine guns on that damn boat! I can see the muzzle flashes. They're tryin' to shoot down the chopper!"

The helicopter pilot must have been aware of the peril, because the aircraft swung rapidly away. "Take the wheel," Ford said. "I have to call them. They can search for the kids!"

He dived into the wheelhouse. Stan gripped the wheel and increased the throttle. They sped past the burning patch on the ocean and saw no sign of life.

Mabel gripped the fur hat and sank to her knees. "God, please, please, please," she begged. "Just let them be all right!"

Ford's voice came from the cabin: "Two teenagers, a girl, older, a boy, fifteen, in the water! There's a strong current bearing north from here—they may have drifted!"

"Ford!" Stan bawled. "Tell 'em they got life vests with GPS trackers!"

Ford relayed the information: "They're both wearing life jackets equipped with SRS trackers. You should be able to pick up the signals with AIS, if they were able to activate the devices." A moment later, he came back on deck. "A Coast Guard vessel is going to intercept the yacht," he said. "International waters, but this is a hot-pursuit situation. The helicopter crew's trying to pick up the tracker signals now."

Stan asked, "Can  _you_  pick 'em up?"

"Maybe, if the kids remembered to pull the cords and activate them—and if we're within four miles. The helicopter's altitude makes it more likely they'll hear them before we do. Look for the flashing beacons, too—red lights, regular blinking pattern."

Stan, at the wheel, kept sweeping the surface with the searchlight. Ford sought the GPS signal.

And Mabel prayed.


	16. Here, There, Anywhere?

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

 

**16: Here, There, Anywhere?**

**(June 14, 2015)**

_Latitude 28.69 N, Longitude 84.95 W, Time 0722._

Mermando held Sirenia's flipper. They spun as though caught in a terrific waterspout, and everything became dark and cold, and then . . . light! They broke the surface in warm water, at a place where the sun was already up, and Sirenia breathed, then nuzzled Mermando.

"You are welcome, my queen," he said. "But you are very, very thirsty! Let us find you a place to drink."

Early as it was on a Sunday morning, people were already out on Apalachicola Bay, puttering around in worn old boats. Most of them were fishing, net-shrimping, or crabbing. Some were tourists, more were locals just getting the materials for dinner. This was not a normal haunt of merfolk, because the water was shallow and clear. They preferred the more remote and lightly-populated stretches—hard to find in Florida.

Mermando popped his head up and took his bearings. To the east, the Bryant Patton Bridge, more than four lines long, arched over the water, holding St. George Island to the mainland; straight ahead, to the north, lay the John Gorrie Bridge, over the mouth of the Apalachicola River and, incidentally, named for the man who invented air-conditioning and made it possible for tourists and developers to take over the state of Florida.

Mermando led Sirenia and they swam that way. At times the bay was so shallow that their backs showed above the surface. Mermando took care to keep his head and torso as submerged as possible. If people saw the fish tail, no big deal. People expected big fish around here.

He found the scoured channel, where the water was deeper, and they followed that. He could tell that the salt content was diminishing—he felt heavier in the water, since fresh water offers less buoyancy. Sirenia became more alert. This was the kind of environment where manatees thrived.

At the juncture of the Jackson and Apalachicola Rivers, within the boundary of a wildlife preserve, the water was brackish but drinkable, and in a cluster of reeds, Sirenia began to drink greedily. Though the men on the ship had known that manatees required fresh water, they had been stingy with it, letting her drink foul-tasting water from a hose only once a day.

A fishing guide in a bay skiff pointed out the manatee to a tourist father and son. "See it over there in the weeds? That's a protected species," he told them. "They hang out in coastal water and get chopped up by outboard propellers sometimes, so we're gonna go through this stretch nice and slow so as not to bump into one."

"Is it a fish?" the little boy asked, shading his eyes as he stared.

"No, it's a mammal," the guide said. "Like porpoises and dogs and human people."

"Look! Look! A mermaid!" the boy exclaimed.

The guide laughed indulgently. "Yeah, that's what old-timey sailors thought sometimes when they saw manatees. But manatees are real, and mermaids ain't. They're just made-up imaginary, like dragons. You get a close-up look at a manatee's face, you'd know for sure it ain't a beautiful mermaid like what's her name in that cartoon. We're in the bay, so we can go a little faster. Now, what we're gonna fish for out in the bay. . ."

The skiff buzzed on out of the area, its electric trolling motor barely humming. Mermando surfaced again. "That was a close call. I did not know the little boy would be spying on us. He called me a  _chica_! Is he blind? I am  _muy macho_!"

Sirenia nuzzled him. He patted her. "Oh, darling, we have had this discussion. I do not  _want_  a haircut! My luxurious, manly hair is one of my best features!"

Another nuzzle. "No, of course I do not regret marrying you instead of a mermaid! What a question,  _novia_! Would I have traveled halfway around the world to bring you home again if I did not love you? Drink, pretty one. Then you can graze."

As again Sirenia began to gulp fresh water, Mermando hovered in the shallows, taking care not to bob very much above the surface—too many boats with too many human eyes aboard them in this part of the river.

And, keeping his thoughts private from his wife, he worried and wondered: Was Mabel safe? He had done all he could, he had left instructions with the Pacific sea mammals, but—

Was Mabel safe?

* * *

_Somewhere off the Oregon coast, Time 0430._

"Get us out of here!" Voilelli barked as the chopper peeled away into the dark sky and the machine gun fell silent.

Grandham, at the wheel himself, ordered full power. "Boss, they're gonna send in the Coast Guard."

Voillelli stepped out of the bridge and went to the rail, staring out sternward. In the distance the burning diesel fuel still flickered red, but it had dwindled to what looked like shimmering coals. The helicopter had descended to only a hundred feet or so, and it was shining its lights down at the surface. Probably looking for survivors, Voillelli decided.

He stepped back into the bridge and cursed. "What a crew I got workin' for me! Idiots can't even hit a helicopter at point-blank range! I oughta get rid of all of them."

"Boss, I'm telling you, we're gonna see more choppers and Coast Guard boats. That one must've sent the alarm. We aint' got a chance."

"Get the speed launch ready."

Grandham stared at him as if he'd ordered him to break out the party hats and kazoos. "What?"

"You heard me."

"We're gonna abandon ship?"

Voillelli's face was red. "No, dummy! The crew's gonna take the  _Cutwater_  due west. The Coast Guard's got no jurisdiction in the open sea."

"Where they gonna take it to?"

"They're gonna run until they're low on fuel, and then I'll have one of the commercial ships meet her and fuel her up. I can get her as far as Asia if we do it in stages. I got people in Russia owin' me. I had this planned all along if things went bad."

"That's crazy. How about water and food?"

"Handle it the same way as fuel. Where can we get in the speed launch?"

"Uh—Goin' straight east, maybe Winchester Bay, Waldport, Newport? One of them."

"They'll do Once I get ashore, I got ways of getting back to the island. And the speed launch will make it easier to sneak ashore. Get it ready."

Grandham gave the order. "Just you?"

"No, you'll come along to drive the boat. Who's most reliable to take the  _Cutwater_  out to sea?"

"Uh, Provis, I guess."

"Go ahead, I want to shove off in fifteen minutes."

And while Grandham was busy doing that, Voillelli opened a compartment and took out what looked like a compact walkie-talkie. He opened it, changed the battery inside for a freshly-unwrapped one, and tucked the device into an inside pocket.

It was always good to be prepared.

* * *

_Same time, near the site of the sinking._

"Anything?" Stan demanded. His already raspy voice had grown hoarse with the repeated question.

"Not yet," Ford said. "Circle again, a little wider."

"We're runnin' out of gas here."

"I'll go pump in whatever's left."

In the deckhouse, Ford checked on Mabel. She lay stretched out on the bunk that he and Stan normally used, her eyes open but glazed. Ford had given her a strong sedative—reluctantly, but she had seemed ready to throw herself into the ocean.

He spoke softly to her, and she looked at him with a dazed expression but did not reply. He spread a blanket over her, then went down into the bilge, which reeked of fuel and stale bilge water. The pumps had been off while the sea creatures had hauled the boat, and water always seeped in.

_We should have refueled and filled up all the emergency containers. I should have thought of that and had Stan do it at the marina while we were driving to meet him._

Ford had rarely felt so angry at himself for a failure of judgment. He began to pump the last of the reserve fuel. Slow work, and at most, it would buy them maybe an hour. When that was up, they'd raise sail and hope they could make it back to land in one piece. The weather report didn't look promising—a low-pressure area sweeping in from the Arctic, sure to bring gales and storms.

How long did they have before the winds kicked up? Hard to say. Maybe half a day, maybe less.

He and Stan had survived one blinding squall on their trip to investigate the Pacific Anomaly. It had been terrifying, and it had left the  _Stan O'War II_  battered and leaking. He didn't want to get into another situation like that, not with Mabel aboard. Not with Wendy and Dipper still—perhaps—out somewhere in the dark water.

The pump sucked air, and Ford closed and sealed the tank and the reserve container. Despite the chill of the Pacific, he was sweating as he backed clumsily out of the cramped space. He heard the whirr as the automatic bilge pump started up.

Pausing, his head lowered, Ford thought _, Dammit, Mermando, send us some help!_

Then he hoisted himself up through the hatch, closed and secured it, and checked on Mabel again. She lay in the same position, but she had closed her eyes.

Before returning to the deck, Ford paused to take some deep breaths. He would pretend to Stan that hope was not lost. Stan would do the same for him.

But—his head told him that time had probably run out already. It was a big, cold ocean.

He felt tears stinging his eyes.

_Dammit! If Bill Cipher were here right now, I'd even make a deal with him!_

* * *

_A little later and farther north:_

Grandham and Voillelli got into the bucking launch in the shelter of the yacht. "Get out of here!" Voillelli snarled. "Due west until you get the signal from an oil tanker, then meet it and refuel!"

"Gotcha," Provis, a dark, eternally scowling man, said. "There gonna be a bonus-?"

"Count on it. Take off, Provis! Get going, Grandham!"

The yacht went west, the launch turned east. Ahead dawn already paled the sky, a pink glow, not beautiful, but ugly-looking, blotted with low scudding clouds.

 _Red sky at morning, sailor take warning_  . . ..

Somewhere just over the horizon lay North America, a big continent, room enough for a smart man to go to ground and stay concealed indefinitely if he had enough nerve and a good head on his shoulders.

Grandham drove the boat. Voillelli kept looking back at the  _Clearwater._ It was sailing into the dark, into the retreating edges of night. Just before it glimmered out of sight, Voillelli took the remote control from his pocket, switched it on, waited for the green LED to signal that it was operational and in contact with the detonator, and then he pressed the button.

An instant later, the  _Cutwater_  blew up. You couldn't really say it sank; it vanished in an incredible billowing fireball, and only the scattered fragments and components sank.

It was more than three miles distant at that point. It took over fifteen seconds for the sound, now more an extended rumble than a sharp burst, to reach them.

"What the hell?" Grandham asked.

Voillelli settled back into the passenger seat. "Never mind. Keep going."

The launch could hit 100 mph in smooth water. This was not smooth water, but they were still doing better than a spine-pounding fifty. Forty minutes to shore. Not bad. By the time the Coast Guard was out looking for the  _Cutwater_ , off to the south, he'd be on dry land.

The instant he was sure that ahead he could see the gray line of land, Voillelli elbowed Grandham and yelled, "Cut the engine! Quick!"

Startled, Grandham did. "What's the matter?"

"Floating, on your side, close to the boat. What is it? Take a look?"

"Huh?" But Grandham half-stood and leaned out.

One shot, to the head, clean and quick. Take time to rip the life jacket off. Shoot it up so the kapok inside would soak in the water. Need a weight. The gun would do—he had another aboard the launch. Leave Grandham floating. The sharks and scavengers would take care of him.

Grinning, Voillelli took the wheel and prepared to re-start the motor. Just a few minutes now—

He didn't have time to start the ignition.

Voillelli cursed, thinking he'd drifted and grounded on a sandbar.

But sandbars didn't keep rising and rising.

Not the way blue whales did.

Voillelli screamed more in anger than in fear as the boat tilted and capsized. Not for one second did he believe this was the end for him.

Not even as the eager killer whales came racing in. They were smart creatures.

They could even herd sharks.


	17. Heaven

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**17: Heaven**

**(June 14, 2015)**

They descended in light from the sky. Dipper couldn't think coherently, could hardly remain conscious. They lifted him, and although he kept trying to say, "Help Wendy first!" he dimly realized that no words left his mouth. He struggled. He felt himself rising . . . into the light.

For a long time—though he had no sense of it passing—he was out of it, gone, unconscious. Now and then he had the strangest fleeting feeling of weightlessness. First the light, then the dark. Then pins sticking him all over, hurting him. Something that smelled sharp and sweet both at once. As much as he could form a coherent thought, he wished that would stop.

He maybe-dreamed. He wondered if he were in the Mindscape. He looked for Bill. Maybe Bill could help. He saw a distant shining triangle moving fast and tried to fly toward it (somehow, he was flying) and then realized it was a shark-fin, cutting through something that wasn't water, a surface like hammered silver. The fin was Death, on the trail of his blood.

He recoiled, and the bright light faded to deep purple darkness, and he was alone.

_Where is Wendy?_

He looked for her then. He had a confused sense of people around him—but not Wendy.  _Maybe I'm dead and she's not._

Cold, so cold.

_I will never be warm ever again._

Oh, he so wanted it to be over. He wanted it to end. He could go if he knew Wendy was all right. Maybe he'd had a nightmare. Maybe life was the nightmare and he was struggling to wake up from it.

Someone shouted his name, right in his ear. "Mason Pines!"

"Nngh," he groaned, trying to say, "No. Dipper!"

He drifted and felt himself being jostled. Someone shaking his shoulder. "Wake up!"

He couldn't even manage to crack an eyelid, but someone helped by placing forefinger and thumb and prying open his left eye. Light sharp as a silver needle stabbed his brain, and he tried to scream, but only got out a weak, high-pitched groan. Then, perhaps, he passed out again.

Mabel's teasing voice: "Aw, you scream like a kitchen!"

 _Kitchen? That' can't be right. Kettle. Kit and caboodle. Kitsch. Kit—kitten_. "Mabel!" he tried to complain. It came out "Mmb!"

Someone shaking him again. "Come on, listen to me, kid!"

It wasn't—Stanley or Stanford or his dad—it was—somebody else.

"Wendy Corduroy is here!"

He tried to open his eyes again. Everything was a bright blur. "Wnny?' he whispered.

"You're all right. The Angel crew rescued you!"

 _Angels rescued me. I'm going to heaven. Wait—Wendy, too? Where is she?_  He had the illusion of sinking into a hole, and seeing it close overhead, a growing sea of black around a fading, shrinking circle of light. He fought to rise.

"Pines! Stop struggling. Can you hear me?"

"Hmmh?"

Then, right in his ear: "We got you! You're going to be all right."

_Then let me sleep._

He didn't have the strength to say it out loud. Nothing mattered. He just wanted sleep. He wanted to drift—

"Listen, Pines, we saved the girl, too. She's going to live, but we had to amputate all her fingers."

That shocked him awake.

_"NO!"_

* * *

"Oh, thank God!" Stanford took off the headphones.

"What is it?" Stanley asked him through the open rear hatch.

Ford removed his spectacles and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "Coos Bay. They couldn't raise us earlier. The helicopter, the  _Angel-5_ , lost its radio—the shooting took out something—"

Stanley sounded furious: "What about Dipper! Tell me!"

Stanford blew his nose. "They pulled Dipper and Wendy out. They've life-flighted them to a hospital in Eugene. The Agency's taken charge. We have to get there."

Stan checked the fuel gauge. "Can we get there in half an hour?"

"No, Stanley! We're almost a hundred miles from Coos Bay, and that's the closest port!"

"Six hours at top speed, huh? Then forget it. Half an hour's all the fuel we got, and with this northeast wind buildin', we're not gonna be able to get there under sail."

"I'll call the Agency for help," Ford said, and he went back to the radio. As he tried to raise the Agency radio post, he heard a small sound, a sound like an unhappy puppy's whine.

He glanced up. Mabel, looking as if she were about to collapse, stood at the foot of the bunk. "Grunkle Stan?" she rasped, her voice sounding thin and rusty. "Dipper? Wendy?"

"They've been rescued," Ford said.

He jumped up and caught her before she hit the deck. "You just lie down again," he said softly, lifting her soft weight and putting her back in the bunk. "I gave you some medicine and it makes you sleepy. Mabel, it's true. Dipper and Wendy have been picked up, and they're being treated by a doctor. They'll be all right."

"I love you, Grunkle Stan . . . Ford," Mabel murmured, as if she weren't sure exactly who he was. She reached up as though to hug him, but then her arms fell loosely back to the bunk. She smiled, looking twelve again, in her relieved sleep.

* * *

Dipper ranted until the man agreed to wheel his gurney over next to Wendy's. He reached to touch her hand—but her IV feed was in the way and prevented him.

He yelled, without meaning to yell: "She—her hands—oh, Wendy!"

* * *

"Yes, I understand," Stanford told the radio operator. "Thank you. We'll stand by. If they could bring fuel . . . three hundred gallons, but seventy would get us to the dock safely with a healthy reserve. Understood. Yes, that will do. We'll hold our present course. What's your ETA?"

He took off the headphones and went back on deck, all the weariness of a long day and a night without sleep suddenly weighing on him. He took a deep breath. The salty-smelling air had a sharper edge of cold, and the lowering gray sky promised a blustering day.

"What's the word?" Stan asked him.

"You must be exhausted, Stanley. I'll take the wheel if—"

"Spill it!" Stan barked.

Stanford took a deep breath. "Dipper and Wendy both are suffering from hypothermia. The Agency has a doctor dealing with it. With luck, they'll both be all right. We need to keep our present heading. In about half an hour, a small coastal patrol vessel will meet us. Throttle back so our fuel will last until we meet the patrol boat. They're bringing ten five-gallon cans of diesel for us."

"That'll get us there," Stan said. "Why just fifty gallons?"

Stan shrugged and pulled a rueful face. "That particular boat only had ten five-gallon cans on board."

"That's the government for you!" Stan growled, sounding for all the world like their father Filbrick.

"Fifty gallons will be enough. We'll fill the tanks when we dock."

"Yeah. So about Dipper and Wendy—"

Stanford shook his head. "Stanley, I told you all I know. All they told me. I asked them to call me as soon as there's news—"

"OK, OK, so tell me about hypothermia," Stanley said, his voice harsh.

"It would only worry—"

Stan's face flushed in anger. "Tell me, Ford!"

With a sigh, standing close beside his brother, Stanford said, "Hypothermia is a serious condition. It happens when the body is chilled so much that the core temperature drops. If it gets as low as 80 degrees, the condition is often fatal."

When Stanley began to protest, Ford held up his six-fingered hand. "Calm down, Stanley. It wasn't that severe with Mason and Wendy! They were down to between ninety-three and ninety-four degrees. That leads to disorientation, confusion, hallucinations, and unconsciousness. There's also something called the diving reflex—almost all mammals have it—which causes the body to redirect heat from the extremities to the inner organs"

"What does that mean, Brainiac?"

Stanford cut to the chase: "It means they should be all right."

"They damn well  _better_  be," Stanley said.

* * *

"Her hands," Dipper said. "You told me—"

"Yeah, woke you up, didn't it?" the mustached man in the white lab jacket said. "I'm Doctor Mallion, by the way—"

Dipper glared at him, hating him. "Why'd you  _lie_  to me?"

Fallon said gently, "Sorry to shock you like that, but we were having a hell of a time getting you to respond, and it was vital to wake you up. Relax, son. We didn't touch her fingers."

"Get me right up to her," Dipper said. "I want to touch her hand."

"Believe me, son, it's whole," Mallion said. But he wheeled the gurney and adjusted it until Dipper could reach his left hand—unencumbered by an IV drip—over to cup his palm around Wendy's fingers, avoiding the drip tube that led into the back of her right hand.

"What are you doing to her?" Dipper asked.

"Warming her up, son. Warm compresses on her torso, like the ones you're under. We're also hydrating her with the drip. Don't worry if her hand still feels cold. It's important to get the vital organs warm first."

"Is she going to be OK?"

Mallion stood on the other side of Wendy's gurney. "Well, she swallowed some seawater, which didn't help, and she was hit by the cold a little harder than you were, and she was so out of it that we could have called her condition a coma, but yes, I'd say so. Right now, most of all, we need to wake her up."

"Let me stay with her like this," Dipper said.

"Son, you ought to—"

Anger heated him more than the warm blankets that covered his body. "Dammit, just leave me like this!"

The doctor blinked. "All right. I'll be back in a minute. I have to tell your guards you're conscious."

Waiting until Mallion stepped out the door, Dipper concentrated: — _Wendy? Are you there? Are you getting this?"_

She didn't stir or respond verbally, but he felt something—a sense of her, far away, remote, floating in the sea of unconsciousness. — _Wendy? Wake up, please. This is me. I'm right here. I've got you. I'm holding your hand. Wake up now. Please do that for me. Just wake up._

He felt her emotions stirring first—surprise, gratitude, a rising tide of love.

He gave her fingers the gentlest of squeezes. — _Me, too, Lumberjack Girl! I love you. Come on back to me now. We made it. Come on, come on, open your pretty green eyes for me, please._

_Don't . . . let . . . me . . . go . . .._

— _Never! I love you, Wendy!_

The door opened, and the doctor stepped in and said, "OK, Mr. Pines, we're going to move you to—"

"Leave us alone! You're not separating us!" It came out as a snarl, angrier than Dipper had meant it.

Wendy rolled her head. Her red hair looked tangled and messy.

Dr. Mallion stepped closer, looking down at her, and murmured, "Well, well, well. She's stirring. Maybe we shouldn't separate you, at that. Miss Corduroy?"

"Just shut up!" Dipper said it between clenched teeth.

Then, through his telepathic conntecion, he thought: — _Come on, Wendy, I've got you. This is my hand. I won't let go, not ever. Just open your eyes and look at me._

Her eyelids fluttered, opened and she focused on him. He'd never seen anything more beautiful than those two bloodshot green eyes.

"Big . . . Dipper," she whispered with the ghost of smile. He felt the weary, immense effort it cost her to say just those two words, and his heart went out to her. Then she blinked—the fluorescent light was sharp after the darkness of unconsciousness—and more focused, she thought,  _Oh, man! Where the hell are we, dude?_

Dipper's face was wet for some reason, but he was grinning. He squeezed her fingers again, lightly.

— _Heaven, Wendy. This is Heaven._


	18. Debriefing Each Other

**Save the Manatee!**

**By William Easley**

* * *

**18: Debriefing Each Other**

**(June 14, 2015)**

* * *

_**From the Journals of Dipper Pines:** OK, continuing from when Wendy came out of it, which I think was about ten AM on Sunday_ _—Once we were both awake, they brought us hot drinks, tea and lemonade (whoever thought up hot lemonade)? Once we got them down, Wendy and I began to feel well again. The doctor—Ford says to mention no names—said that was par for the course in cases of hypothermia with no complications._

_We didn't see them, but I know there were guards outside the door. Later I learned they weren't there to keep us in, but to keep any random bad guys out. Wish they'd told us that._

_OK, so there we were in a windowless room in a hospital in some town in some state, presumably Oregon, but we didn't really know. We weren't even in real hospital beds, just those rolling things you see in emergency rooms. Gurneys, I think. They're kind of tall and narrow—you can't turn over on your side without falling off unless you're really careful._

_Wendy got tired of lying there, so, carefully, she swung her feet over on the far side of hers (because the IV stand was on the side toward me) and sat on the edge of the thing with her feet dangling. "Man," she said, "my hair must be a real mess. It feels gross!"_

_And she took the tangled mane in her hands and pulled it around over her shoulder . . . ._

_And, um, the hospital gowns they had put us in didn't have any backs. Well, they did, but they weren't tied closed. And looking at my Lumberjack Girl from behind, I saw, well, more of her than I usually did, let's say._

_I alerted her to her predicament by saying, "Gleek!" or something like that. I cleared my throat and managed to squeak, "Wendy, check your bu—uh, back."_

_"Oh, my God!" She quickly pulled the sheet around her. "Didn't mean to flash you, man!"_

_"I'm wearing the same thing," I said._

_Doctor—well, call him Doctor X—came in and took out our IVs. It hurt. I mean, it hurt worse than when I sprained my ankle and was on one because they knocked me out to realign the joint. But a nurse did that one. I don't think doctors get as much practice._

_He put two bandages on our hands and said, "You two are good to go as soon as Dr. Pines finishes his debriefing and clears it."_

_"Uh, Doc, can we have our clothes back?" Wendy asked. "This is kinda embarrassing."_

_"Sorry. They cut you out of your wet clothes," the doctor said. "Your personal effects were bagged and will be given to Dr. Pines. But about clothing, I'll check with someone in authority."_

_"If they destroyed our clothes—" I began._

_He stopped me: "Don't worry about it. The people in charge of your guard will do something to fix you up, I'm sure. All right, as soon as a few loose ends are tied up and your, uh, family, I guess, confirms that it's all right, you're free to go to the place where you'll meet them. I'll take care of all that now."_

_"Uh," I said, remembering how Dad had fussed about all the hospital red tape, "don't you need our insurance information?"_

_"Why would I need that?" he said, as blank-faced as Tad Strange._

_"Well, because—isn't this a hospital?" I asked._

_"Sure," he said with a shrug. "So what? You two have never been patients here."_

_Wendy tilted her head. "Doc? Do you mean-?"_

_Blandly, he assured her, "There's no record of anyone of your description ever having been brought here or admitted. Never happened. Anything else?"_

_"Uh—any chance of a shower?" Wendy asked._

_"The bathroom is right there," he said, pointing between our gurneys. I turned and looked_ _—_ _hadn't before because of the gurneys having their heads toward that wall. Sure enough, behind us a wide door stood ajar, and through it I could see a toilet and shower stall. "I'll see that you have privacy. Oh, robes are hanging on a hook in the bathroom. You can keep them if you want."_

_Wendy hopped off her gurney, still holding onto the sheet. She draped it around her shoulders and tried to reach under it and tie the gown closed, but didn't have any luck. "Shoot. Can't find the strings. Little help, Dip?"_

_So I got off my gurney and managed to tie my own hospital gown. I went over to her, the tile floor hard and cold under my bare feet, and just as I got to her, she dropped the sheet._

_And her gown fell off with it. On purpose._

_"One-time deal, OK?" she said, turning around, long and soft and warm in my arms, pressing against me and kissing me and heating me up to a body temperature of about 103. She whispered in my ear, "Quick hot shower together, no sex, but lots of hugging. Deal?"_

_"Deal," I think I said._

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were out of the shower and into the white terrycloth bathrobes—like thick warm, soft towels—just in the nick of time. Someone tapped on the door, didn't wait for an invitation, and walked in.

"You!" Dipper said stepping so one of the gurneys was in front of him. The bathrobes closed in front, but his hadn't quite closed all the way.

Agent Trigger didn't look happy. But then he never did. "Brought you some clothes," he said. He held out a bulky gray plastic department-store bag, no logo. "Your uncles are on the way."

"How'd you know our sizes?" Wendy asked. Dipper was busy adjusting his robe. He held the bag in front of him and hoped it covered the requirements.

"That's on a need-to-know basis," the crew-cut agent said, his eyes narrowing. "Need to know!"

"Uh—thanks, man," Dipper said. "We'll, uh—we'll get changed. Are you still with your partner, the guy with the mustache?"

"He's working on another element of the case right now," Trigger said, sounding faintly resentful. Then he frowned. "How do you even know about him?"

"Um, used to see you guys around? In Gravity Falls? You were there for about a month one summer?"

Trigger leaned forward and poked Dipper in the chest with two fingers. "That was a confidential visit!"

Dipper sensed that the man seemed to be waiting for a cue. He said, "Ah—you mean . . . top secret?"

Visibly relieved, Trigger poked him twice more: "Top! Secret!"

And then he left them. At least his bad-tempered visit had deflated Dipper's main problem.

"That guy and Powers," Dipper said. "They've got some kind of weird vibe goin' on between them. I don't know, man."

"Let's see what they brought us," Wendy said, taking the shopping bag from him.

She pulled out underwear and socks, of course. Black jeans, exactly the right waist size, but a bit tight in the legs. Black socks. Black sneakers. And black turtlenecks, or as Trigger would say, "Black! Turtle! Necks!" Their outfits were identical. Suddenly overcome by modesty, Wendy and Dipper dressed separately, she in the room, he in the bathroom. He tapped on the door and asked, "Are you decent?"

"Come in and find out," she said. And she was fully clothed.

"Well," Dipper said, "it's clothing."

"They have no sense of style," Wendy complained, but she turned around, modeling for him, a slender, tall girl all in black.

"You look great in that, though," Dipper said, admiring her.

She grinned, pulled him close, and rested her forearms on his shoulders. She leaned forward until her forehead touched his. Huskily, she whispered, "As good as in the shower when you were soaping my back?"

"Nope," he said. Then, quietly, he added, "That felt so right at the time. But, you know, we can't. I mean, we just can't do that as a regular thing, because, well..."

Wendy kissed his nose. "You're right, we couldn't possibly hold out. But, man, just bein' alive and bein' with you—remembering how you never let me go when we were both, like, dying—I mean, just for that one time, it was really all pretty innocent, but it was still so—you know—it was—"

"Heaven," he said.

"Yeah, it was." She caressed his face, and he heard the soft scrape.

"I'm scruffy," he muttered. "I looked at myself in the mirror and I really need a shave. I guess I could have a beard if I let it go for, what? a year?"

"I don't care how scruffy you are," she said, her breath warm against his cheek.

They kissed.

Dipper sighed. "If only we had some peppermint!"

* * *

That was around noon, probably. Not long after that, two men in dark glasses, with receivers in their pockets and earbuds in their ears, escorted them to a freight elevator, down to an interior parking lot, and into the back seat of a car (black, of course). They discovered the windows were so darkly tinted that they couldn't see anything, and a similar dark barrier blocked their vision of the driver.

"We're moving," Wendy said in surprise. "I don't hear the engine!"

"It's electric," Dipper told her.

"I didn't recognize the make, man. What is it?"

"I don't know," Dipper said. "The body style is just kinda generic. It may not have a normal make name. But I'm pretty sure it's an electric car."

He would not, in fact, learn the whole truth until another few years had passed, but he was correct. The automobile, which had no insignia, was one of a small fleet built expressly for an Agency tasked with investigating, isolating, and if necessarily eliminating any paranormal threat to the American way of life. The vehicle was based on patents owned by an eccentric and yet brilliant designer and engineer. Eventually, when the cars were declassified and did hit the American market, they would be called McGucket Dynamos.

Anyway, the car cruised for maybe a quarter of an hour, slowed, went down a sharp incline, and the identical two men—Dipper supposed, anyway, because they were interchangeable—opened the back doors and escorted them from the car. They'd parked in another underground garage, but this time they took a normal elevator up to what seemed to be a normal apartment, until you realized that the windows weren't windows, but holographic screens that offered three-dimensional views of some bucolic scene that might have been in Idaho or Indiana: acres of flat rolling farmland, a blue sky, nice day.

Their guard ushered them into a living room with a big flat-screen TV and—more important to them—a huge, low coffee table loaded with two covered plates, two glasses full of ice, and two Pitt Colas in cans.

"We must be in Roadkill County," Dipper said. "You can't get that anywhere else."

They briefly explored. The living room, a bathroom (no shower, just the toilet and sink), and that was it. No closet, no bedroom. "Well," Dipper said, "they don't expect us to spend the night. So—what do we do?"

"Eat! I'm starved," Wendy said. They took the covers off the plates to find out what they had. One plate was loaded with a thick sirloin steak, asparagus spears, a big steaming baked potato with butter and sour cream on the side, and a yeast roll. The other had roast turkey breast, a risotto with peas and carrots, a salad with spinach, greens, tiny tomatoes, croutons, and two little containers of dressing, poppyseed and ranch, plus another roll.

Like little kids, they sat on the floor, their backs leaning against the sofa, and shared both plates, each eating from both. After a while, Dipper was feeding Wendy forkfuls of steak, and she countered with bites of turkey for him. "This is the life," Dipper said.

"And look at this." Wendy opened another container. "There's pie! Looks like lemon meringue and apple. Which do you want?"

"I'd prefer some peppermint," Dipper said, grinning.

Wendy whispered, "Uh, dude, the TV or the windows might be spying on us, so—"

Dipper chuckled. "I'll settle for pie, I guess. Take your pick, I like both."

They turned on the TV and found it was a closed feed. Only one station. "I can't believe it!" Dipper said as the movie began. "Look, it's  _Help!_   _My Mommy Is a Mummy!_ "

Wendy laughed. "My gosh, it stars old Chadley and Trixandra!"

As the corny black-and-white Poverty Row movie from, probably, the 1950s began, Dipper said, "Hey, this is the flop we read about on the Internet but could never find!"

"And we've talked about wanting to see the worst of the worst! How do these guys know so much about us?" Wendy asked.

Dipper was a little worried about that, too. But he didn't say anything. Surrounded by plates, knives, and forks, he and Wendy cuddled, sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa and each other, and watched the improbable story of Trixandra's suburban housewife mother being kidnapped and replaced by a dead ringer who happened to be an ancient Egyptian princess—transforming into a withered, wrinkled mummy when she became angry—shepherded and guarded by a Japanese swordsman whom nobody ever noticed because he was so stealthy and wore head-to-toe black. For some reason, this Asian warrior was the Egyptian Princess Khu-Farrah's eternal guardian. When Trixandra's steady guy Chadley (still a college freshman and football star, though he looked forty) at long last tumbled to the fact that something was off about Trixandra's mother (maybe her habit of walking sideways with one arm crooked up, the other down), the Japanese guy jumped out, grabbed him, and threatened to kill him. "I never saw you at all, there standing right behind me!" Chadley objected.

And the Japanese guy said in an accent that sounded as if he'd been born and raised in Brooklyn, "I am a Ninja! Of quietness!"

Wendy laughed her head off, Dipper put an arm around her waist, and she and he held hands. "Man," she said. "This takes me back! Remember that one time we were in my house watchin' one of these epics and you were, like, layin' on my bra and practically had a heart attack when you realized it?"

"Yeah," Dipper admitted.

"Well, Dip," Wendy said, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I guess you wouldn't do that these days, huh?"

"No," Dipper said, kissing her. "Because I am a Ninja! Of love!"

* * *

Just as the movie ended, a black-suited man entered the room, silently, and picked up all the dishes, stacking them on a tray. "Oh," he said before leaving. "I was supposed to give you these."

He held out his hand and dropped something in each of their palms.

Two peppermints each. Then he left, silently.

Wendy smiled crookedly at Dipper. "They sure must've been listening to us. Good thing we didn't play Naked Ninjas, dude."

"Please," Dipper groaned.

* * *

They dozed a little, sitting on the sofa. Dinner came at what Dipper guessed to be about seven p.m. And another old movie. They ate, they started to watch the film, a rock-and-roll musical ( _Hot-Rod Alien Beboppers from Beyond Space)_  but before the rubber Neptunian dinosaur ate even one Tonka truck, somebody threw open the door with a bang that made them both jump.

"You guys!" Mabel yelled, tearing in to hug first Dipper, then Wendy, then both at once. "I brought your phones, but not your bags! Oh, you look so  _good_  to me! Man, you're a matching pair! Nice threads! What are you supposed to be, mimes?"

Dipper struck a pose—the Preying Mantis, approximately. "We are Ninjas!" he pronounced.

Wendy crouched and held up both hands like a Karate master. "Of love!"

Mabel pressed her lips together and laughed. It came out as a raspberry sound, but cheerful. On TV, the Earth kids' garage band started wailing, "I'm so glum at the prom, I should call my mom, 'cause a lizard just ate up my date..." Mercifully, the screen went dark. Evidently their hosts knew they wouldn't hang around to see the end of the movie.

"Mabel! Don't run off like that!" Grunkle Stan huffed as he came through the door, with Grunkle Ford close behind him. He gave them his trademark ear-to-ear grin. "Hiya, knuckleheads! See what you get for jumpin' off a perfectly good boat?"

"Sorry, Grunkle Stan," Dipper said. "But you did need help. Did—what happened with—you know—"

"The manatee? She apparently teleported back to the Gulf of Mexico," Stanford said. "We won't absolutely know for sure if she did, or if she's in good health, until Mabel hears from her friend on the spot there." He touched a finger to his lips.

"Oh," Wendy said. "Well, I hope everything went all right. Man, that whole boat deal was crazy! You guys all OK?"

"We're fine," Stanley said. "Ford's buddy the prof—"

"Stanley," Stanford said in a warning voice.

"Sheesh! The you-know-who had us picked up by heli—"

"Later, Stanley," Ford said, hissing on Stanley's name.

Stan shrugged and looked grumpy.

"We're here," Stanford said, "to take you home."

"What about your boat?" Dipper asked.

"It's bein' towed up to Vancouver," Stanley said. "Next week we'll have to run up there and check it over for repairs and such, but it's basically OK."

Dipper began, "What about—"

"Later," Ford said firmly.

* * *

Once outside, Wendy and Dipper learned they had been in what looked from the street like an old, shuttered motel plastered with DO NOT TRESPASS warnings. They were about a hundred miles south of Portland—and the usual black van (gasoline-powered this time) with darkened, but this time not completely opaque, windows drove them up. It took over two hours, but a little after nine PM, they got off at the marina and Ford reclaimed his dark-blue Lincoln. The van pulled away and nobody waved goodbye. On the way up, at Stan's direction Wendy had phoned ahead and made reservations for them at the marina motel—two ground-floor rooms, one for the guys, one for the girls.

"Heck with that," Stan said when they walked into the registration area. "Family arrangement. One room for the adults, one for the kids. Your room's got two queen beds in it. You three figure out the sleepin' arrangements!"

It wasn't that late, just about nine-thirty, but both Stan and Ford looked exhausted. Even so, they all gathered in the elder twins' room and heard their story, and the kids told their part in it, as much as they could remember.

"You guys got through it lucky," Stanley told Wendy and Dipper. "I knew what happened when we freed the manatee, and you two were out of it, off in la-la land or something, so you didn't have to be  _debriefed_  by Poindexter's old playmates."

"I did!" Mabel announced. "I told 'em all about mermen and manatees and the whole nine yards. Even my first kiss and the daring poolbreak I pulled to free Mermando! I think they thought I was crazy!" She threw back her head and gave a prolonged maniacal laugh.

Then Ford took up the story and explained that the paranormal element of the manatee kidnapping fell into the Agency's jurisdiction. His own incidental involvement and past associations with the group let the Agency have an inside view of the  _Triton Trident's_  suspicious activity—right up until the explosive end.

"So," Stanford wound up, "apparently this criminal, Voillelli, somehow learned that the freighter was being tracked and elected to sink it, probably hoping to eliminate all evidence. The Coast Guard recovered eight or nine bodies—the monster killed his own men in cold blood—and found four wounded survivors, including the captain of the yacht. They're being held and will be charged. They're already spilling everything they know in hopes of clemency. Voillelli didn't exactly gain their loyalty by turning on them."

"Yeah, and the Coast Guard came and took our boat in tow, and another chopper came and met us at the docks and flew us off to where you kids were. They told us you were doin' OK, but we were worried. Took 'em a couple hours before they stopped questioning us and let us come and get you."

"I was going crazy worrying about you guys," Dipper said.

Stan shrugged. "Yeah, well, we both came out of it better'n that Voillelli guy."

"Did he get away?" Wendy asked. "I say we go after him!"

Stanley scratched his nose. "About that. The Coast Guard also found floatin' wreckage from his yacht a good many miles out to sea. It somehow blew up. I dunno, maybe some enemy of his planted a time bomb, whatever. We may never know for sure."

"He could have escaped in a lifeboat," Dipper pointed out. "Maybe he even blew it up himself, just like the freighter. He could be out there somewhere now!"

"Not likely," Stanford said. "In any event, Canadian authorities have at last agreed to cooperate with the Agency. Joint search warrants have been issued by both governments, and Voillelli's island is now occupied by lawmen who will closely examine everything they find there. If he returns, they'll arrest him on the spot, and if he doesn't, well, I hear from the Professor that at the least, he fully expects a number of vicious crimes to be solved. Enough to put the man away for good."

"I hope they find what's his name, Volleyball, and string him up!" Mabel said, viciously. "Make him a tetherball! Ka-pow! Ka-pow!"

"Nah, chill, Mabes," Wendy said, patting her shoulder and interrupting her imaginary punches. "That's way too harsh. Tell you what, if we find him, let's just feed him to the sharks."

* * *

When the kids went next door to their room, Wendy clicked on the light and said, "Oh, man. Check this out!"

Mabel was the only one of them with luggage—she had just enough time to pack her clothes before the helicopter had taken her and her Grunkles aboard. Dipper's duffel and Wendy's overnight bag were still on the  _Stan O'War II_. All they had were the black outfits that Agent Trigger had given them.

Except now they apparently had more. On the closest queen-sized bed, men's underwear, socks, jeans, a belt, a red shirt, and a blue denim camper vest had been neatly folded and laid out. On the pillow rested—a blue and white trucker's cap with a blue pine tree on the front. "Oh, man," Dipper moaned. "They struck again. And we were right next door blabbing about everything!"

The girl's clothes were on the same bed, other side. Wendy moved aside the bra, panties, and orange-and-yellow socks and held up a new green plaid flannel shirt. "My size, all right," she said. "These jeans look a little bit tight, though. Meh, they're stretchy. They'll do." She reached to the floor and brought up a pair of new brown boots, shaking her head. "Man, they so got me pegged! My brand, my size. All these need is a little mud on 'em."

Mabel was looking at the two of them with one suspicious eye squinted. "Whyyyyy . . . did they put both your outfits on the  _same bed_?"

"It's elementary," Dipper said with dignity. "This bed's the closest one to the door. The agents obviously wanted to be in and out quickly because they didn't want us to catch them at it."

"Like Santa Claus," Wendy said in support. She grinned. "Or ninjas!"

Mabel seemed to buy that, so Dipper said, "I'll take this bed, and you and Wendy can sleep in the other one."

"Only one thing missing," Wendy said, folding her new outfit.

Mabel reached into her bag. "Ta-dah!"

"Oh, Mabes! Thanks." Wendy took the trapper's hat from her. "Still got your running medal in it and everything, Dip. Nice of you to remember to bring it, Mabel!"

In the dresser drawers, they found night things for them all—not a floppy-disk sleep shirt, but a similar one without the emblem, in lavender, for Mabel, with fuzzy pink pajama bottoms, and for Wendy green flannel shorty pajamas with a black tank top, and for Dipper a plain blue tee and loose blue cotton boxers. They also found toiletries in the bathroom, toothbrushes, two brands of toothpaste (the twins' favorite and Wendy's, too), and all the necessities.

Dipper found a disposable razor and a travel-sized sample of the shaving cream he'd been using, and he ran hot water and scraped off his scruff. Someone even had provided a three-ounce sample of the aftershave he self-consciously used: Tall Pines. He'd bought it to begin with only because of the name.

When he finished and rubbed a towel over his face, Mabel complained, "Aw, your dimple just about disappeared. Lucky I don't shave mine!"

"Mabel!" Dipper said, being jostled. It wasn't that big a bathroom, and it was a little difficult shaving with two girls at his elbows going through the goodies on the shelf.

"Man!" Wendy exclaimed, holding up a couple of bottles. "They even have my shampoo and conditioner here! It's gonna take the whole amount of both to get this salt and gunk out. Guess I'll get up early to do it, though. Don't want to sleep with damp hair."

"Guys?" Mabel said. "Uh, could I have a little privacy here?" Wendy and Dipper left her in the bathroom, but not for the first reason that springs to mind. Though it was nearly eleven, Mabel called Teek, sitting on the closed toilet just for privacy. She came out in a few minutes, looking a little subdued, and put her phone on the nightstand. "Teek and me have to talk some stuff out when we get back," she muttered.

"Hope it's not serious," Dipper told her.

Mabel shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile. "Well—I'll just say we both have to be grown-up about it. It's certainly not break-up serious. I think it comes down to mutual apologizing. And some forgiving, on both sides. We can patch it all up. I really didn't mean to hurt his feelings."

"It'll be OK, Mabes," Wendy said. "Teek and you are—what did we used to call it? MFEO."

They changed into their night clothes and turned in. Dipper was exhausted and fell asleep in minutes, hugging one of the three pillows on his bed.

Then past midnight, he woke up to a sound like the Gobblewonker gargling pebbles, or like Manly Dan sawing through a three-foot-diameter oak log with one gloved hand operating a rusty two-man saw, going for the world speed record.

He recognized the racket coming through the wall because back in the Shack he had heard it night after night when he and Mabel were only twelve.

Grunkle Stan was snoring.

Smiling, Dipper turned over and went back to sleep to the horrible, grating, infuriating—and completely wonderful—sound.

* * *

**Afterword: Bulletins**

**(June 18, 2015)**

* * *

At 8:30 that Thursday evening as she and Teek sat on the grass outside the Gravity Falls Municipal Swimming Pool, which had closed half an hour earlier, Mabel said to Teek, "OK, I'm sorry for blowing up because you took Toni to the concert."

"We didn't kiss or anything," Teek mumbled. "And I only took her, because, you know—"

"Yeah," Mabel said. "The tickets were eighty-five dollars apiece, and I ran off on this adventure without telling you I was going to rescue the manatee. I'm sorry for that, too. In the excitement, I just sort of forgot we had a date. I just got carried away, because—" she waved her arms and bobbed her head. "You know, Mabel!"

"That's OK," Teek told her with a regretful smile. "I'm sorry I got so mad. It's just, well, we'd been planning this and—aw. I guess we've said everything already, right? There's nothing between me and Toni Brandeis. We were lab partners in biology, but she doesn't even like me. I mean, she doesn't  _hate_  me, but normally she wouldn't go out with me, except she's a big fan—"

Mabel put a finger against his lips. "We've already said everything," she reminded him. "But for the record, there's nothing between me and Mermando, either. Mermen grow up faster than humans. Now he looks like he's twenty or some deal. And I think he really loves his— _there she blows_!"

The pool water near the inlet suddenly glowed golden. "Back in a second," Mabel said. She picked the lock, retrieved the bottle, and took out the message. Surprising Teek, she handed the coated paper, more like a thick sheet of plastic, to him. "You read it out loud," she said. "I don't think we should have secrets from each other."

Teek took it and read:

* * *

_My dearest Mabel,_

_I write with deep joy to tell you that you and your family saved the life of the Queen of the Manatees, Sirenia the First. Her family and all the sea mammals rejoice and sing your praises. If ever you need help, you have but to call on me, though really you will have to write a letter, so please think ahead when there is a sea-related crisis and get your request in early. Thank you._

_Sirenia and I are happy again, and now our friends the dolphins have established ties to their Pacific relatives. That bodes well for aquatic peace and tranquility. You and your brother Dipper have done more than you know. Like ripples in a pond, your kindness is spreading._

_I was so pleased to receive your note telling me that you all came through safely. I regret that necessity forced me to leave the area through the golden portal just as the danger was approaching a critical level. I had asked the mammals to help you, but without my direction, I gather from your account that they unfortunately made many mistakes. I apologize. If my instructions had been clearer and they had better understood me, your brother and his friend the lifeguard would have been rescued much earlier._

_My dear Mabel, I must confess that five of my hearts still ache for you, though we both know a love between us can never be. Let us part, and remain, as friends. Please reply to this note, and be sure to tell me if it is acceptable that I continue to correspond with you._

_Always your friend,_

_Mermando IV, Prince of Merfolk, King of Manatees_

* * *

"Is it OK with you if we write to each other?" Mabel asked when Teek finished reading.

"Sure," Teek said.

Mabel overwhelmed him, and he fell on his back, but didn't complain. She was kissing him as only Mabel could kiss.

* * *

Grunkle Ford and his wife had come over to the Shack for dinner that night. Afterward, Ford walked to the bonfire glade with Wendy and Dipper. "I didn't expect Mabel to be off on a date," he told them. "However, you can give her the news."

They sat on the log, and Dipper asked, "What news?"

"I came," Ford said, "because of this." He handed Dipper a notecard. Dipper read the small type on it and winced, then handed it to Wendy.

* * *

_Dr. Pines—thought you would be interested in this news item from Westport, Washington:_

_Forensic scientists are examining a grisly find that washed up on an Ocean City beach and was discovered early this morning: a human foot, still in a shoe. Preliminary findings are that it may be the result of a shark attack. The shoe is an upscale man's Oxford. DNA testing will attempt to identify the victim._

_—That is the substance of the news report. We can tell you that the brand of shoe is one manufactured in Boston and that it was the favorite brand, color, and style of a gentleman who lived like a recluse on an island off the coast of Washington. We may never know more._

_—Your cousin._

* * *

"So much for Voillelli," Wendy said, handing the card back to Ford. "I joked about feedin' him to the sharks, but, man—" She shuddered.

"Cousin?" Dipper asked.

Ford nodded. "Back when I did R and D for an intelligence outfit, they informally called themselves the BHF. Big Happy Family. All the field agents were cousins, the supervisors were uncles and aunts, and the head was Dad. The Professor's Agency split off from that group, and they don't really use that jargon any longer, but the old-timers remember."

"I wonder what made the guy want to kidnap a manatee in the first place," Dipper said. "It makes zero sense."

"I have a few conjectures, but nothing definite and no solid evidence. We'll probably have to let this one go, Mason. Some mysteries," Grunkle Ford added, "will never be solved." He rose from the log where they sat and said his goodbyes.

Wendy took a deep breath. "I hope that guy's really gone for good. Gruesome, though. Speaking of gruesome, Dip—Friday night movies tomorrow evening. Your place or mine?" She grinned. "Dad and the boys'll off be bowling until midnight!"

"Your place," Dipper said, reaching to hold her hand.

She gave his hand a friendly squeeze. "Think that's safe, after what we went through and after what we, you know, did in that hospital shower, you ninja, you?"

He tightened his grip. "In the ocean we held on and didn't let go. I think we can also hold  _back_ , don't you?"

"Well," Wendy said, leaning close to him, "it'll be fun trying."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
